I Have Bipolar Disorder; It Doesn’t Have Me
Fighting to Control My Own Destiny
I stake no claim on the words. Let them fall as they may.
As they will.
As they must.
…The literary bloodletting.
The silence is deafening. There is no sense of time save for a vague awareness that I have an appointment in the morning.
I keep waiting for someone to tell me what to do. To make some demand. To pick a fight. To assert their dominance and authority. To make me feel small.
On that same token, I keep waiting for comfort, for a soothing touch, for a proclamation that someone cares. To make me feel important.
Neither come.
I am on a cosmic island, floating without the familiarity of gravity. Nothing roots me. Nothing grounds me. Nothing holds me in place.
I am, yet I am not.
I kept my promise to myself yesterday. I woke early, showered — dressed comfortably yet stylishly. I put on makeup. I even put on jewelry.
Odd, that piece of jewelry. I got it in my early thirties — a faerie sitting on a half-moon with an amethyst hanging from it. I forgot it existed. I don’t know how it surfaced — but there it was in a ziploc baggie in a drawer of my dresser that I never open. I don’t know what drew me to that dresser drawer, but the fae was there, so I smiled at her and clasped her around my neck.
I miss my magick. I miss that feeling of being connected to a power infinitely stronger than me, and yet not separate from me. The knowing that this… this 3D fucked up chemically driven “reality” is not all there is to life.
I miss my connection to spirituality and desire to dive deep into the all-that-is, knowing it fulfills my soul.
They say that if you’re lost, sit still until someone finds you. I am sitting still, waiting for the Universe to call ollie-ollie-oxen-free.
I think it has laryngitis.
Maybe it’s calling me and I just can’t hear it through my mental chaos.
But I digress.
I ordered an Uber to take me to the nail salon.
I sat in a chair with a Kindle in my lap while a Vietnamese woman massaged my legs — human touch — innocent, paid for, and the only skin-to-skin contact I get. But she eased the pain in my metal leg and made my toenails pretty.
And my fingernails… even though no one sees them but me.
Agoraphobia claimed my life and forced me into the arms of controlling men who were all too happy to chauffeur and chaperone me, even if only to the corner store.
I was in one relationship where I attended college as a non-traditional student in my late thirties. The school I attended was an hour away from where I lived, so my partner drove me there and then literally waited in the car all five hours while I was in class, just in case I got spooked and needed a safe space to retreat to. Just in case he needed to step in as my savior. And the truth is, I begged him to stay.
I have never — and I do mean never — taken myself out for the sole purpose of enjoying my own company. I was always afraid. It’s why I stayed in unhealthy relationships. That all-consuming anxiety disorder screamed inside my head of the dangers of the world. It didn’t help that my ex-husband once told me that someone would cut my finger off on the street just to steal the diamond he’d put on it if he wasn’t there to protect me.
In my mentally-ill existence, if I left the house alone, then anyone who looked at me either wanted to fuck me, hurt me, or both. I couldn’t make eye contact. Legitimately terrified of the world.
But I have to sort myself out. I am all I have. There is no more masculine protector to make me feel fragile and precious. There is only me.
And now my family has left. It truly is only me — and I don’t know for how long.
It’s time to pull up my big girl panties and decide what kind of life I’m going to live.
I do not want to be a victim of mental illness. Not anymore. I want to be a survivor. I want to roll around in mental wellness like a pig in mud. I want to feel freedom from my mind’s shackles.
I decided on Barnes & Noble. I belong amidst the words. The way collections of ink shape themselves on paper to create fantastical worlds that give me a safe space to dream — that is where I belong. Creativity in tangible form.
The smell of books. The sounds the pages make when you turn them.
I haven’t been inside of a Barnes & Noble for seven years. And never alone. I didn’t even know what to do, where to go, or how to behave.
I literally had to take out my phone, open Chat GPT, and ask it how to find a particular book. I had no idea how things were organized.
I thought I was going to get the first book in the Zodiac Academy series. I’m on book seven (of 16) on my Kindle, and I know I want the collection for my bookshelf. But they didn’t have Zodiac Academy in stock because, apparently, it’s getting all-new covers.
I saw some books on BookTok that caught my fancy, so I scouted for those.
I forced myself to make eye contact, smile, and have pleasant conversations with people. For example, a group of people walked past me, and the girl in front said to the males behind her, “I’m almost finished; we can go in a minute.” To which I boisterously replied, “Said every girl ever in a bookstore.”
They laughed.
I felt proud.
I found one of the books I was looking for.
I held the book for an unrealistic amount of time, frozen in my footprints. I opened the cover to look at the price. I had budgeted for this. It was okay.
The sense of panic climbed from my feet to my chest as I wrestled with the fact that there was no one there for me to ask if I could have the book.
It was an emptiness. A void. A vulnerability.
No one would tell me I didn’t “deserve” a book, that it was too expensive, or make me feel like they were doing me a favor by allowing me to take it home.
No one was there to tell me that my attention should be on them, not on the pages of fiction.
It was just me.
Just me.
I pulled my foot from what felt like cement and moved to another shelf. I grabbed another book. I checked the inner cover for the price. Do-able.
After that, I took myself over to the Starbucks.
With determination, I confidently marched up to the cashier, made eye contact, and ordered a frozen mocha with whipped cream.
I hoped she didn’t notice my sweaty hand shaking as I slid my debit card into the machine.
I knew I wouldn’t eat the whipped cream, but no one was there to tell me I couldn’t have it — and it looked pretty. I wanted the whole experience.
I also allowed myself a brownie that I didn’t even really crave just because no one was there to tell me I didn’t need a brownie while they visually measured my waist.
I came home proud. I came home satisfied. I came home and demolished one of those books. Scarfed it down. Lived in it. Consumed it.
Allowed it to consume me.
I couldn’t sleep last night, and I couldn’t put my finger on why. I lay in my queen-sized comfortable memory foam bed and tossed and turned. Eventually, I got up and went to the sofa and slept there. Somehow, the confined space was more comforting than a big, empty bed void of warmth, in spite of the comforter.
I woke up this morning with no sense of purpose. All of the pride and joy of yesterday’s expedition had worn off into an endless well of emptiness.
The apartment is eerily quiet. There is no laughter. There are no voices. I do not play music. I do not watch t.v. — it was just me and another day of words assembled in a way that make me temporarily forget how isolated I feel.
I wrote on Facebook, “When you are no one’s favorite person, you have to be that for yourself.”
Then I cried a little.
I have bipolar disorder, but I won’t let it have me. I know I am pre-dispositioned for these episodes of hopelessness.
Part of the reason I refuse to join bipolar support groups on social media is because, in my experience, the people in them aren’t trying to lift themselves or each other up — they’re using their disease as an excuse to stay down. It’s like a contest to see who is more pitiful.
Unacceptable. The disease is real — but that doesn’t mean we can forfeit responsibility for ourselves. We have to advocate for ourselves. We have to do everything in our power to overcome. To stabilize. To balance.
My date with myself may have ended in a sense of lonely isolation, and yet, I did it. I did the thing. I did the thing I have never before been able to do. I faced my fear.
I spent time with myself.
I loved myself.
And I will continue to do those things.
I will continue to move toward the light — to search for my soul until I find it again. My magick.
I will learn how to be alone without being lonely.
I will.
I am.
