5 years. No medication. 2 ½ university degrees. 8 countries. And
a dozen heartfelt connections later I am still terrified. Scared to death to
share my story because of its sacredness. A sacredness more commonly ridiculed,
demolished, and locked away than unfolded.
I spent months and years wishing I could wash off my label. But
it burned deep into my skin. Like someone tattooed 'psycho' on my forehead.
Even after it's been laser removed, the scar tissue remains.
Bipolar. Not just any bipolar. Bipolar type one. Manic
depressive. The highest sort of maniac. Infinite times more likely to
self-destruct before the age of thirty than ones peers.
No wonder. As I sat in front of my psychologist at the age of
twenty-fucking-one and received a paper to file for permanent mental
disability, I too would most likely have self-destructed by now if I followed
my prescribed path.
Speaking of prescriptions. The cocktail of numbness they shove
down your throat hoping you'll forget enough of who you are to ever consider
alternatives. I feared myself for years because I was told I was a danger to
me. Now, I find it far more dangerous to never face oneself and one’s army of
demons and wait until they violently erupt to the surface, than to turn around
and say "hi, you're part of me for a reason, I'd like to know why?"
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