The Longest Confession partII

Growing up in hospitals, I learned how to be strong for other people. Strong for them, because when they looked at me I could tell they felt sorry for me, and the last thing I wanted was pity. Being their celebrity gave me a sense of purpose, and hope, so I didn't feel the need to ever think my allergies were a mistake. Living like that made me a catalyst; it also taught me how to hide my fear. When other people - i.e. your family - pray, hope, and are desperate for your survival, you don’t' let on that your scared shitless. I have some theories about what may have triggered this, but the point is I am bipolar, and have been for many years. To even say that out loud is a huge relief but also breaks my heart. I never thought I would be this weak; I never thought I could be this broken or messed up. The symptoms can masquerade as other disorders, so I became a hypochondriac of sorts to mask the fact that I have been living in fear and shame for as long as I can remember.

There is never a convenient time to deal with it, never a moment of purpose set aside specifically to deal with such a disorder. However, there is always an endless supply of excuses. Being too stressed to deal, too broken to feel anything, being too busy to stop and think, being too drugged to care, and being too hurt to face anything else. Mom's favorite was, "It's past 9pm and we don't talk about deep stuff after nine." Dad, having a personality like my own felt the pain, knew the struggle; saw the need, but not knowing how to take care of himself couldn't do anything for me. When my brother was younger he would resort to trying to cheer me up. Sneak attack hugs from behind, and playing with my face while I was playing a video game; calling my cheeks "Softies," right before leaving his big fat lip print right onto one of them. Looking at me like a piece of meat came after, and I'm not sure how or where it was inspired; only that it killed me to loose my best friend and gain an enemy. I blame myself more then anyone else.

For weeks now I've been replaying different memories in my head over and over to find the answers; trying to figure out when I decided that it was all too much, when I saw it was time to give up. In another day or so something will spark me back into fight mode and I'll want to take this bitch head on; but who knows when the beast will rear its ugly head again - I can never tell. I kept thinking for years that it was something spiritual, like a demon or spirit sent to torment me for some reason. For a long while I was self-righteous in my believing that I'm some kind of special saint that God has chosen to do some work so sacrificial the enemy gets sacred just looking at me. Since I am mortal and don't realize I am truly significant, he beats me up every chance he gets to prove that I'll never amount to anything more then what I am - a feeble worm.

The battle in me rages something awful because I can never except what lies I'm fed - just like in the hospital when Doctors would stand by my door and tell my mother I might not make it through the night; or when they would put a death sentence on me like I had only two years to live; even then I fought back with everything in me to prove them wrong. But that is all it's ever been, a quest to be proven right and remain alive and well against all certain odds. And here I am again, looking at the one enemy I've never been able to beat.

Death wasn't the worst, living dead is the worst. Knowing that my life could be so much richer, so much more beautiful and so much more free then it is now; and not having the will to get myself there is killing me - but knowing I wont die from it is hell to live with. This is like a reaction I had years ago, where I ate something I wasn't supposed to and went into shock. The shock kept getting stronger but it wouldn't get strong enough to knock me out; it was a tease and disappointment. The same is true now - the disease is still there but it wont kill me, yet medication can't cure it, talking won't heal it, and prayer helps until I have another "bad day," and people around me loose faith or think I'm cured. I'm at a loss as to what I'm supposed to do anymore.

Any time I've hinted at having bipolar I've been met with two kinds of reactions: one, people cling to me like their life depended on it because they themselves were so desperate to find someone who knew their situation. Two, they refer me to something, someone, or someplace else so they don't have to actually deal with me and my pathetic problems that they feel could be taken care of by simply choosing to let them go. The worst is when I meet the rare third part of people; these mother fuckers think it's all about spirituality, and have convinced themselves that if someone struggles with bipolar and meds and talk therapy fail to work, then that person just doesn't have enough faith in the power of God. Talk about psycho. So I am back at the beginning. I am bipolar, that is what is wrong with me, and big pat on my back for finally being honest - even if no one is ever going to read this.