Here it comes again. Pouring down corroding my every sense of sanity and reality. Threatening to brake me and bring me back to the torment that is this disease. It’s been years, since writing, since fighting, since then becoming the power of positivity, love and light.
Feeling now like a sham, a suit, everything I dispise, fake. A shell for the world. I wonder if it’s the support group that makes me think about my disorder and see how many people are stuggling. Maybe it’s me craving an outlet, a place to be. Something to myself. A secret that is only mine, while I am something for everyone else. Mom, Hunny, suit, friend or family.
Bipolar and addiction doesn’t give a damn who you are or what you have. Proof? I have everything I ever wanted. Everything I that Ithought once I had, I’d be happy. I’ve tried changing my mindset, my medication, meditation…everything.
Yet I still crave the kiss of metal against my skin. The syrupy surprise that bubbles up and runs down. It’s beautiful. It’s grounding. It’s wrong?
Of course I can’t. Right? It’s an addiction. I know I wouldn’t start drinking or popping again. Although I still pop whenever it’s available. That’s one secret, what’s one more?
But there is no privacy anymore. My body is shared. It would be seen and brake him. I don’t know what he would do. I need a therapist. I’m done with these psyche meds. Obviously I’m not doing better.
Can I function, yeah sure, like a robot. I can work, cook, clean and fuck. I can get up and take care of my children. All the while wishing I were alone in my room cutting myself up instead.
Jeeze, how morbid does that sound. I had a dream last night, that I was committed and delusional. I escaped twice but was caught each time. Part of my knew I should be there.
I should be there now. I can’t tell anyone. I don’t have time or money to commit myself. I can’t leave my children and husband to fend for themselves. I can’t miss work and work outs and my own birthday celebration.
So I’ll just bleed and go on with life.