The Baggage of Bipolar Disorder


I will always be a little bit strange. A second-­guesser of even my most obvious traits and talents. I will often wonder when I will crack… again. And settle for the normalcy only a person like me can have. I search constantly for a sign — some signal to alert me I am finally free from powdered fantasies encased in pale, yellow shells. I slide on by, hoping my stride doesn’t snag on a nail too soon. You may see me in my glory, in my happiness and in my joy, but I will always refrain from committing fully to celebration.

No, it’s not fair that at times I doubt my clout with my own rationality, and, at times, I start to think, “Is this really me? Is this really me?”

Built on the backbone of pills, held on by a balance not quite my own. Four years and eight months of memorable moments. One giant hope this identity of mine really belongs to me.

I will crumble when your words twist into 3,000 meanings at once. My brain overloads, and I ponder which meaning you wished me to imply. The air in the space around my head compresses, and the cells inside lose color as I lose sensibility. Frequent chatter, not of tongues, but puny particles pecking at my brain, preparing for a battle that need not exist in the first place.

Are you listening? Because although at times these words I speak may not dole out the perfection I wish they’d supply, my heart has always been in the right place.

silohette of crystal

Please know if I end up not the person I say I am, I am the person I mean to be. It’s a constant struggle between reality and sanity. One I do not wish to fight, but neither silence nor surrender is an option.

Expectations of comprehension, I do not have for you. I know the extent of your compassion and the length of your arm. If it is warmth I seek, I trust you will give it to me. I fear not frost, nor sleet, nor stone when I am with you. But I will understand a need to leave.

For the baggage I carry is not for you. And it clings to my back like a banged ­up tattoo. And I don’t even know where it’ll go when I’m through… with being afraid of loving you. And when I’m done with this obnoxious disease that refuses to knock with courtesy… when I can brave life without these pills that pardon me for all my ills… oh, if that day were to come. Oh, if that day were to come.

I’d be needing baggage none.

The Mighty is asking the following: Describe your experience of not quite fitting under one specific diagnosis or a label your community identifies with. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

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