I lay here, curled under the covers at 1 p.m. Motionless, I stare at the curtain blocking the world out. Sometimes I think it ripples, feeling the breeze against the window. The overnight rain has subsided but I guess there’s more to come. The dark cloud of depression has settled itself in my room. Stretching out. Getting comfortable. The air feels thinner now. It’s a struggle to breathe. In fact, everything is a struggle.
This thick veil of blankets used to weigh me down, but in this moment I think it’s my very existence causing undue pressure. I repeat over and over how sorry I am — sorry for the burden I feel I’ve become, the trouble I seem to cause, the constant worry you shoulder. The fear of not knowing who I’m going to be when you arrive home: angry or agitated or manic or depressed. Or worse yet, cycling through them all.
My voice: 12 octaves higher, signaling I’m manic — not to mention all the projects I’ve started in the last 8 hours. “Honey! Honey, I wrote a song today. It’s really good. You are going to like it.” Racing around with paint in my hair. “Look at the colors in this. I don’t know how I did it. Came out great, right?”
My lifeless body on the couch. I can barely muster a “hello.” Can’t muster a “how was your day, dear?” This is where I was when you left this morning. “No, I haven’t eaten. I’m just not hungry. No I didn’t shower again, I’m so tired.”
The echo of my rage throughout the house shakes the pictures, scares the cat. Nothing you say is right. “I’m not fucking hungry, alright? Leave it alone. Why don’t you cook once in a while, for God’s sake! I clean and I clean and look at this mess. I don’t know why I bother.”
You wipe away the never-ending tears fielding my questions: “What happened? I was doing everything right. I mean, wasn’t I? I’m a good person, aren’t I? I don’t mean to be this way, to cause so much pain. I don’t understand. Why now? Why?”
These are the many faces of my bipolar disorder.
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