ipolar is a strange disease, largely recognized by severe and uncontrolled mood swings. One of the things that they often don’t tell you is that you can be “triggered” into a swing. What does that mean? Certain things will cause the mood swing. For instance: pictures/writing about self harm can cause me to have a complete shut down if I’m not prepared for it or it comes too close to home.
Manic depression is the new black? Really? Apparently the artist made the image with the thought of making an ironic statement about how mental disorders change names over time, but what it made me think about was the news story I read earlier this year about people who want to be bipolar.
Yes, you read that correctly. People actually want to be diagnosed with this hell.
It’s one thing to be fidgety, it’s quite another to be fidgety to the point of possibly harming yourself. And there’s a huge difference between sleeping in an extra couple of hours and just lying in bed for hours or days because you just can’t find the will to get up.
Expectations are a terribly heavy thing. They can leave you feeling like Atlas. This can be true for anyone, however it becomes more extreme in the case of mental illness. One that has been especially hard for me lately has been the expectation of eating.
Here’s a “fun” new thing I’ve had to deal with: vomiting blood. Now don’t freak out. It’s not quite as bad as it sounds. The blood isn’t coming from damage in my stomach or esophagus. As far as I can figure, the blood is coming from my mouth and lips. This is due to the joys of lithium-fuelled dehydration + a night’s “sleep” wherein I’m not drinking the 500mL/hour that I usually try to get into me. Thus I dry…
It’s never going to go away. It’s never going to get better. You may get it under control, but you will always carry this disease with you. It’s already ruined your life a thousand times and it will a thousand more. It’s yours until you die. And you will die early, whether from suicide or medications or some other disease-related issue. It will be both your life and your death.
To everyone who’s ever hurt me; Thank you for the scars. Thank you for the blood and pain and tears and screams you allowed me to release. Thank you for the low self-worth and reminders that self esteem is just for delusional idiots anyway. I really didn’t need that heart anyway. I mean, what would I do with it? Give it away? Better that it’s torn to pieces and destroyed.
Wrist cutters want attention. There. I said it. Not a pretty statement, but it’s out. Now, please don’t misunderstand me with this statement. I don’t mean that they only want attention or that they don’t need help. I just think that they’d cut someplace less obvious if they didn’t want to be seen.
9 years since I was first diagnosed with this damned illness and my father still has no idea what I’ve been through. I was half tempted to pull up my skirt and show him the roadwork of scars across my legs. Or to give him some sort of lecture on the difference between feeling suicidal and actually acting out on it.
All I’m saying, muffins, is that you should be very careful when you say something. Some of us may resemble your comment.