Not Knowing Which Is the Real Me
A poem about my bipolar written before I got my bipolar diagnosis
I’m tired of fighting the thoughts that want me to believe that I have stupid ideas, or that my words don’t carry value, or that I’m a bad person. A horrible person. Who’s done horrible things.
I’ve done shitty things. Made shitty choices. Made hurtful decisions out of desperation to be liked, to be loved, to feel loved.
I’m tired of this uneasiness. Not knowing which is the real me. Not having a grasp on my likes and dislikes, opinions and moralities. Always shifting and floating and searching, not knowing.
Yearning for the familiarity of feeling free. Free from indecision about what I’m thinking and what I have to say.
I’m tired of the memory loss. The forgotten thoughts and fugue memories.
Who was I back then?
How did I get here?
Where are the friends I used to know? The people I used to spend time with, to smile with, to go places and share spaces with? Who was I with them?
I’m tired of feeling the loneliness.
Feeling alone in my experiences.
October 15, 2020
