The death of me

I’m one for the dramatics and the title should be telling. Though I didn’t physically die, my former self sure got lost somewhere between an 8 year break up with my ex and my stay at a contemporary Sing Sing.

I didn’t believe them when they told me I was bipolar. I was only jumping like a kangaroo and high on life and almost burnt my house down cooking. And when the high was over, I tried to kill myself. No big deal.

Plus it lasted for a short period of time and that was just a “slip up.” Until recently, I still believed it was all a slip up. I stuck with the “bipolar” label because that’s what was prescribed to me but deep down inside I knew it was beloved sidekick – depression and anxiety. Except a little worse. Now – more than 2 years since that hospitalization – I’m accepting that I really am bipolar and coming out of denial really sucks.

It began feeling super frustrated a month ago. I was reminded that my effort in therapy didn’t measure up to real life every time I had a depressive and anxious episode. I didn’t understand what I was doing wrong because I felt like I was doing almost everything to protect myself and my noggin. Then I realized I left self-acceptance by the wayside.

A light bulb went off in my head. I thought to myself, “Damn girl, you’ve been chasing your own tail.”

The bipolar symptoms are still building a profile similar to that of a serial killer.

Where is Agent Olivia Benson when I need her?! Obviously not here because she only exists on SVU *major side eye emoji right now.*  I figured they were here to stay and I had to accept it. I’m still frequently anxious and a complete disaster when I don’t take my medications daily and on time. I have an asshole named Peter that comes to be like, “Hey girl what’s up?” every once in awhile in a non-Gosling voice. I am a real life robot when I become super anxious, clinically named apraxia. Robot, apraxia, same thing. And then when life catches up to me, I can become hypomanic and get real high on life. To add the sprinkles on top, I disassociate in other panic attacks and end up on Everyone Island where all the dead corpses are piled up like a dump yard and Peter likes to vacation with me there. Dear Husband – it’s not cheating if he’s not real right?

When I read all this out loud to myself, it’s obviously not the depression and anxiety crawling under my skin anymore. I have been in this teenage identity crisis where I no longer know who I am and where I fit in the world.

I have successfully stigmatized myself. Now I see a disability in myself; I see that I’m not “normal”.

Accepting this has been hard because I just want to feel peace but there isn’t a month that passes by without a panic attack or a voice chiming in. It makes accepting this different me feel like I’m climbing up an impossible mountain.

The difference is that I don’t ask for it to stop anymore. I don’t wish for another life anymore. I also don’t fight myself and say “Bring it on” anymore. I can only think to myself, “Here we go again.”

I know my future isn’t a gravity sucking wormhole. Annnndddd it’s because I defy all laws of gravity when I’m with the Jetsons on their flying saucer! Okay bye and see you next Friday!


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