A never ending battle with bipolar

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A fictional diary entry

Submitted: November 28, 2014

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Submitted: November 28, 2014



My recollection of a never ending battle with bipolar

I’ve been told that maybe putting pen to paper about my mothers’ illness is probably the best way to deal with my subconscious thoughts. Sometimes, it’s a person’s most powerful tool. It paints a clear picture of everything I don’t want to be. Sometimes the worst thing in the world is being the victim, or even the victims daughter..

Okay, so its day one. Day one of talking to a piece of paper about how I feel, talking to myself about how I feel, subconsciously opening up to no one but myself. Will it help? I hope so. I hope so. I hope so, so much, I can’t actually bring myself to explain how I feel inside.  ‘All I can sit here and do is wonder, why me? Why is it my life that’s had to be ruined by something to cruel, this is precisely why I have no faith, if there was a God, why would he treat me like this? Why would God do me like this? Why would he knowingly sit there, knowing that I’m going through something so horrific? Horrific perhaps isn’t the right word; I cannot actually string together a sentence about how much of a struggle this is. This isn’t God test, this is a punishment’. Just one of the many things I’ve had to listen too, sitting there talking to my mum about her illness, which often makes me wonder, why me? Why us? Why her? It’s Friday the 3rd of May, I’m so lucky to have a mother like I do. Regardless of the endless moaning, upsets and tears I have to endure, perhaps that’s God’s way of helping me cope, making her one hell of a beautiful woman through all of the tears. Or maybe its Gods way of not making himself feel so guilty – giving her a pretty face, an extremely supportive daughter, it sort of, takes the shear bitterness and heartlessness away from my life, her life, the journey which he has lead us both on. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m her silver lining, I’m her hope, her light at the end of the tunnel, or, am I the only thing that’s keeping her from ending all this now, giving her peace, stopping all this torment and punishment. What am I? I’m her rock, that’s what I am. And now, that’s not me being big-headed, but she’s actually told me that herself, I think she meant it, I hope she did. Perhaps she was too drugged up to realise what she was saying? Either way, she said it – let’s leave it at that. She’s coping well today! She actually managed to get out of bed this morning, her emotions - anger, hatred, panic, anxiety and distraught that would normally just fill her body every morning, they wasn’t there, I was so happy. Where did they go? I don’t even know, but is that really relevant? What’s relevant is, for the first time I can remember; I can genuinely say she’s happy. That makes me happy, happier than I have been in a long time. Too many people take the feeling ‘happiness’ for granted. We don’t, something so little to someone else, is something so huge for my mother and I. ‘I feel ‘normal’’, having her say that to me is like music to my ears. Normal. Normal. I’ve often wondered what it’s like to feel normal. I know she’s not normal, I’m not normal at all, neither of us, not even in the slightest. Why are her highs and lows so much different to everyone else’s? Why do they go from one extreme to another? Do normal people smash their house up when they cannot find their toothbrush?  Cry themselves to sleep because it wasn’t where they had left it? No, no they fucking do not! Why should she - or I for that matter - have to put up with this? Is that why my father was such an alcoholic? Did she do that? Did she push him to that? All I can do is blame myself, and I can’t think why. Ok, so her ‘happy-spell’ didnt last long! All of an hour I’d say, and she’s hit rock bottom again. She’s put herself back to bed, I refuse to go to work, I refuse to do anything. (A normal day in our house) I often sit here and wonder if people actually mean it when they say, ‘death brings you to a better place’, but I doubt it. Killing themselves is not putting an end to my problems, killing herself is running away from them. Where would that leave me? But how can you continue to run away from something once you have killed yourself?  That’s the perfect scenario isn’t it? The perfect end. But not so perfect end for me. The house needs cleaning, I can’t let her know that I’m upset again, I don’t know how much more she can take. But then again, how much more can I take? When do I realise enough is enough.. I hate that she has no one to blame for her illness. I wish there was, a person to blame, for the torture I have to withstand. For making her this way. Bipolar. Sick. Flawed. Never to have peace. Why should they get peace? Bastards! I'm so full of anger, always to be soiled, broken in the most personal way. I will not die from it physically, unless I drive myself mad enough to commit suicide. Her personal life, her potential, her hopes, dreams, is all dead. She’s a shell of what could be. A person. She has been cheated. Only to taste her potential, but never to fulfill it.  Trapped within herself, hating herself to her very core. I hate how people always say how gifted and blessed people with Bipolar Disorder are. Haha, next joke please. Sure, some of them are gifted, but the gift, or gifts in my eyes, come with an ironic price. They will never fulfill it. Never see its full potential. It will always be a tease of what could have been. She will always be a slave to the Bipolar. A slave to medications. A slave to her emotions. A slave to her torment, the Demon within herself. Breathing inside. Who grips her by the spine. The Demon who stole her first names, along with her last. Who wears her face with pride! It may not claim her body always, but it resides in her soul. Choking it. She will never be her full self. Just a hint of what she could be. Should be. They are a race of Broken Spirits. Broken Souls. Sure, we all hear of how the loved ones of the Bipolar people suffer. Oh, how I’ve suffered. But, does it class as suffering though? Or just second nature? To look after someone so precious to you, to take away their pain. But few dare to look further, into the diseased ones suffering. For they fear, they cannot bear to see it. That they do not have the strength to understand, and will go mad also. And they are right. They are weak. My mum is given the strength to sometimes survive it. Bare it. Like a victim given food and water, only to insure they will survive the oncoming torture. But sometimes the slow madness we call our lives is too much. Our only escape, Death. She is too strong for Death, but also too weak. She lives. But I can see, she’s  also dead. She’ll never be the full her, never be full. Always shackled to her possessor. Her Owner. Her Bipolar.

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