Being bipolar. Being my own best friend 

A year ago I was admitted to my second hospitalization. I’m really nostalgic towards sentimental dates and milestones.
Today I write this post on a plane, flying to NYC for thanksgiving, which I’m going to metaphorically call freedom. Being bipolar is hard. I feel like there is so much I need to let out to make myself feel relieved, like I can breathe and be okay in my own skin, in my own world. Being a in manic-like state or under the influence of alcohol or klonopin (whatever does the trick for you) helps as a sort of release to act on impulses or say and do how you truly feel inside. The feelings inside that aren’t socially or culturally acceptable. For me, I haven’t met a therapist, been to a group, had a friend or encountered any sort of situation where I feel it’s okay for me to say what I need to say and do what I need to do and not be afraid of what the reaction would be. I fear being my true, unfiltered self around others because I will be viewed as crazy or unstable or committed back to inpatient or outpatient or told to move back in with my parents because I can’t take care of myself or some other reaction of fear. I have been conditioned since birth to always be composed and collected. I don’t know if it’s due to my socioeconomic status or what, but I hate it. 

To me, being bipolar means being my own best friend. I have to be strong and comfort myself through the awful thoughts and terrible impulses. I act on them way too much. I spend my rent on alcohol to get blackout in bars with boys I’ll never see again. I binge eat and then purge in my closet, trying to desperately hide my habit from my roommates. I act out on my agitation towards my best friend when she is only trying to help me solve a problem. Once I fall, I have to pick myself up. I feel like if I were to ask for help in a way that would truly align with what I need, it would still be misinterpreted. I’m still hoping, wishing, searching and looking for the person who I can spill my soul to and tell the awful things I think and have the person just listen without a strong reaction. I don’t always want to be helped. I just want to be heard.  

I don’t know any other life but I do know that I experience the world in a different way that doesn’t allow me to communicate things the way they need to be to your average minded human. I’m still struggling to find a way to align myself with the world in a way that can let me flourish and not be limited by my disorder. Bipolar disorder can make you feel so alone. I know I’m not alone, there are so many of us out there doing the best we can each and everyday. But there are times that I wish I could have one small glimpse of a normal life and feel the comfort I long for. 

And with that being said, happy thanksgiving. I hope everyone feels the love and comfort from family or people who just make you happy and validated. Xoxo 


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