That feeling of bottomless sadness have moved into the pit of my stomach. It has reached out it’s dark hand hand and taken my heart in a firm grip. And I hate it so much. This suffocating feeling of despair and hopelessness. The trendy people who, in interviews, claim that they never would want to live without their bipolarity must be insane on a whole other level. What I wouldn’t do to be rid of this crap I’m dragging around with me, to live my life without this crippling depression and anxiety, to be “normal”.
I’ve noticed it being on the rise the past few days but you never know which way it chooses to go so I usually don’t acknowledge it until the feeling is drowning me. But with my tears that can’t stop falling, I can no longer deny the fact that my mood isn’t slowly getting worse, it’s taking a nose dive. But to write, to cry, to spend time with my husband and listen to soothing music helps. It takes the sharpness of the situation and makes it softer, less likely to draw any blood or leave bruises.
One of my favourite, bipolar authors describes it ever so accurately:
“My anxiety does not belong to the chic existential cultural anxiety. My anxiety is certainly not becoming. It does not generate great poetry and fits badly with red wine and social contexts. My anxiety is down on all four and hits it’s head on the floor. Bang bang until the blood comes.” – Ann Heberlein
Note: Showing this side can make some worry about my well being, I know that. But this is a part of my life and it is what it is. I’m not suicidal, I’m thoroughly checked and medicated and have an active contact with my doctor and nurses. Should I feel that this is overpowering me, I will seek out professional help.
But as always, when you are living with a life long diagnose like this, it’s not about never falling, it’s about getting back up, knowing that it’s okay and that it will pass.