So, everyone has a story. Every.single.one. Every soul, every being. Everyone has a story, and now I will share what I can right now, about mine.
I have never felt any different to the way I do now. Never. I didn’t wake up one day and think ‘OH WOW I MUST BE PSYCHO’. I didn’t wake up one day and realize anything. I just have always been ‘weird’, ‘loud’, ‘talkative’, ‘dramatic’, ‘over the top’. I remember distinctly my Year 5 teacher putting my desk in front of his because I ‘wouldn’t shut up’. I was always ‘excited’. ‘Fixated’.
All children are born special. All children are gifted, wonderful and a blessing upon our world. I can understand how I slipped through the cracks, because there was so much other stuff that went on in my childhood (not unlike many others, mind you) that took precedent over what could have been an early diagnosis.
I am not special, nor am I unique. In my own little ways I am of course, just like everyone else, but on the whole, in the pool of specialness and uniqueness, we are all the same.
ALL of us.
Including you, who doesn’t live with bipolar.
I have never felt different to the way I do now. I had some really tough times through my childhood, which contributed to the nightmares that I live with now, the PTSD ‘effect’, if you will. Those events didn’t really change me, except for those nightmares. Because, I have always been this way.
I have always connected with the more ‘unusual’ types. I have always walked on the wild side. I have always put myself in danger. I have always challenged what I thought was ‘normal’. I never, ever actually wanted to be normal. I never ever ever ever wanted to fit in. I never felt a need to conform. In that respect, I have been free, from a very young age, from that feeling where I needed to conform to what society deemed acceptable. Yet, I never accepted society because to me it just all seems ridiculous and idiotic and generally not something I wanted to be a part of.
I was sexually abused for a long time. Lived with a broken home, a few times over, saw way too much, fed drugs at a young age (by my father, who was clearly not ‘well’ either), I had so many challenges. Yet they formed me into who I am today. I feel like a warrior right now. A warrior of truth. I feel like I want to scream to the world about HOW things can be better. HOW things can be different. HOW much acceptance means to us. Yet that is conflicting because to me personally, screw acceptance.
When I say ‘us’, I mean those of us that live with bipolar.
I felt a sigh of relief when I was diagnosed with Bipolar. I felt like finally there was a reason for why my mind would play tricks on me. Why my mind would repeat everything. Over and over over over over over. I felt like I knew exactly then, exactly everything. I didn’t though. It was the beginning to the search that I am on now. For answers. Not medical answers. Truthful answers. Self acceptance. Self knowledge. The day I found out that I had bipolar changed my life. I would like to say for the better, but at this point I cannot say. I still feel like a warrior though. Like I am fighting the good fight.
At this point, everything feels like a band-aid. The medications, the diagnosis. All of it. Right now, it feels like it is covering up a massive truth that I just cannot find yet. I know I am obsessing, I know it. But I know there is a REASON. I know it.
When I was diagnosed and shared it with my mother, she said that it must have come from my fathers side. Because my grandmother was batshit crazy (my words, not hers. She doesn’t swear). I was incredulous. Gobsmacked. I heard stories since forever about her and I always felt that she was on the kooky side but wow. Don’t put me in that basket man. Just don’t. I deserve my own basket. Dammit.
This is hard, I feel like I want to scream out ALL THE DETAILS but I know I can’t. I know I can’t.