Confessions of a functional bipolar chick

I’m writing this after a long 12 hour shift with snot all over my face and completely naked because clothes make me feel like I should just crawl out of my skin. This is the truth about living with bipolar disorder a little too… functionally? I trick myself into thinking none of the depressed, anxious, or psychotic symptoms can touch me because this “functional bipolar” label exempts me from most of it.


It’s like I’m supposed to brace myself from the depressed, anxious, and psychotic symptoms
only if something bad happens in my life.

There is no “pass” that makes living with bipolar disorder any easier and I’m realizing this again… and again… and again. When will I learn? I thought I was doing alright this winter. I’ve adjusted a medication here and there. I’m still going to therapy. There hasn’t been any major breakdowns (major as in suicide thoughts or attempts of any sort). It’s an achievement!

But here I am, writing with blurred vision from the delicate pearls that are called my tears.

I am anxious and depressed with psychotic symptoms this winter, like any other winter, and maybe every winter. I am exactly where I was last year right now, at this very moment, where I have caught myself in the same ah-ha moment. I thought it’d get better but I’m learning that maybe there’s no such thing. The only thing I’m sure about is that it will only get easier.

So here’s my confession: this “functional bipolar” label only means that I’m good enough to drag my feet back to work tomorrow despite all the crying and screaming that is happening right now.

Well, fuck this shit. Just fuck it. I hate it. Fuck being bipolar.

xoxo,
Joanne

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