Some days we wake up ready to tackle the world, some days we wake up wondering why we are still in it.
Some days the future isn’t just bleak, it has vanished all together, the perfect fantasy land from a long forgotten yesterday has now gone, stolen somehow by the circling dusts of an invisible sand storm.
This powerful unpredictable storm that always comes at me like a curse and so often hits out of nowhere, when I am walking, driving, sitting down playing with the children. Suddenly the air changes and I only have a moment before it is surrounding me, furiously whipping my legs and stinging my eyes. It’s whistling winds hauntingly whisper that it won’t get better again, this time it can’t get better, this is the end. The voices in the wind tell me over and over again until I can only believe that it’s Gods honest truth.
This sand storm belongs only to me, it has once again overtaken my mind with all its force, smothering me, feeding on what was left of my hope and blinding me from seeing any other possible realities except this one laid out before me now.
I feel as though I am endlessly fighting a battle I don’t want to be involved in, one I didn’t sign up for, one day I just woke up and discovered that mental illness had not only become a part of my world but it had completely taken over and while it sometimes steps out for a while, the respite is short lived, for it always comes calling again, sometimes suddenly, sometimes slowly creeping back into my life undetected until it’s too late to usher it away.
Love is not always enough to justify suffering through the torture of this personal war zone and I find myself searching frantically for any suitable excuse not to have to blatantly show the ones who love me that I can’t love them enough to stay alive for them a moment longer. Methods that hide my intent rattle through my brain, snake bit? A car accident? Why couldn’t I just be allergic to peanuts? I fantasise about peacefully slipping away into the darkness, heart failure? Stroke perhaps? Anything that doesn’t leave my children having to utter the bitter phrase “my mother killed herself” for the rest of their lives.
Nothing has changed really to bring this storm back upon me, it’s the ebb and flow of being Bipolar but accompanying this particular change of tide comes a wave of regret and the timely reminder that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. Unfortunately I always have a pocket full of rocks and deep seeded impulsivity issues that end with me saying or doing something stupid and hurtful.
Part of me can be an overconfident, flirty extrovert, it’s an unfortunate personality trait, perhaps flaw, that has developed into a bad habit carried by all of me.
Most of the time I don’t intend to be anything other than polite or friendly and even then the tendency toward extroversion can cause problems. While I don’t want to palm a personality issue off on mental illness or use Bipolar as an excuse for my poor behaviour, if I’m erring on the side of hypomania or in a mixed episode I lose my inhibitions, I start talking too fast and thinking too much sometimes I get hyper sexual and I can get a bit too carried away with silly things like word play and innuendo. When I do engage in this sort of thing it’s not meant as anything more than being cheeky and having a laugh, it’s generally online with people I don’t really know and will never meet, hashtag games and the like.
Occasionally it’s with people I do know and it gives them the wrong idea about my intentions, people with families and partners, people I have no business acting this way around. It’s something I hate about myself and yet sometimes I get carried away in a moment, grab hold of a snippet of something and run with it blurting out something that is totally inappropriate without having paused for breath or to look at the big picture. I end up hurting people that I care about, people I never, ever wanted to hurt.
Maybe its subconscious habit left from the attention seeking years of my youth, although I certainly don’t want that kind of attention nowadays, I grew up as the fat ugly girl and was informed as such by my peers at every opportunity from year 3 onwards. There was no doubt in my mind that I was a worthless piece of shit. Any positive attention was only ever given to me physically and either taken without consent or hidden in the drunken darkness of unspoken nights. The internet became a thing and at 14 I discovered people would listen to what I had to say if my hideous appearance was hidden behind a keyboard, there I could engage in both opinion and sexual fantasy in the company of much older men without the fear of being hurt; I learned how to flirt and I had fun doing it.
That was a long time ago, I’m happily married now, we have 4 kids and have been together since I was 16. I have never and would never cheat on my husband, I love him with my whole heart and for reasons I will never understand and despite everything I’ve put him through he loves me too.
Yet despite this fact and thousands of dollars in therapy I’ve never learned to control that now habitual tendency to flirt with men and sometimes women.
It’s never been with an intentional goal, I never want anything other than a conversation and I never set out to hurt people’s feelings. It actually goes so heavily against my moral code and core values to hurt people, that when I do, especially over things like this that I feel would be so preventable if I could only change this hateful part of myself, it eats me up and leaves me sleepless, sobbing into my pillow and wanting to die, preferably slowly and painfully to counter the heart ache and suffering I have caused to others.
The pain and fear of my childhood has never left me, and I made a promise to myself many years ago that because I knew what it felt like to be hurt, I would never cause suffering to another person, and yet the fact is that even with my best intentions I still manage to fuck up more often than not and cause pain and heartache everywhere I go either by getting ‘caught up in a moment’ or saying or doing stupid things before thinking.
To be able to inflict such misery, even accidentally, just proves to me that I don’t deserve to be here, I have no right to be using social media as a platform for fighting stigma, or for honesty and truth when I am not even capable of living according to my own values.
I’m declaring my head a failed state, and I am beating a hasty retreat, there have been too many casualties and not enough progress. Someone like me doesn’t deserve to be given infinite chances, I haven’t earned the right to be loved or listened to or have people care about me the way they do and there is ultimately nothing good that can come from my being here because all of the good contributions I made are overridden by the hurtful ones.
So I’m done hurting people, I can’t live like this anymore and I hate myself too much. This will be the last time I go to battle with my mental illness, my final chance to prove to myself that I can be a good person. A private war to end all of those unwinnable, endless wars I have been fighting in my mind for as long as I can remember. The apex has been reached, I have nothing left to lose and I’m ready to duel with my demons, even Jeff.
This will be my final post here for a while, possibly forever. I feel terrible that it has come to this, and I am truly sorry to those people I have hurt, you know who you are. I wish I could take it all back but I can’t, and I will regret my actions to my dying breath. I am also sorry to those people I owe reviews and guest posts to, but it is for the greater good that I fight this last fight back in the real world with my doctors and family by my side.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my words and for opening up and sharing your lives with me, I am forever humbled by that opportunity to take a glimpse into another’s world. Thank you also for the unending love and support, it’s been quite a ride. This is an amazing community and I am grateful you let me be a part of it.
The titillations, tribulations, vicissitudes, and oxymoronic cogitations of a very lucky and unfortunate Neuroscientist with Bipolar Disorder
It was almost funny.
Torn. Broken. Writer. “For me, writing is an art of converting feelings to words.”
Read between the lines
The ups and downs of my recovery
On Being Creative, A Mother & Bipolar
Stationery Enthusiast & Mental Wellness Advocate
Speaking Out on the Unspeakable
Creative Writing. Book Reviews. Adult Humour.
NOT ALL WHO SUFFER ARE STRONG
Shattering the Magic Mirror