Being beautifully bipolar sometimes isn’t always that beautiful. Like yesterday. Yesterday I was depressed. What did that look like? An old hooded sweatshirt with frayed cuffs and pajama pants with a stain on the knee. Thank God my hair is long enough to pull back now because that is exactly what I did. No makeup. Dark circles under my eyes, never mind the fact that at 12:30 in the afternoon I was lying in bed. Not sleeping, just hiding from the world.
To me depression feels heavy. Everything takes a Herculean effort. Do you know how heavy a toothbrush is? Do you know how many stairs there are connecting the first and second floor? Do you know how many muscles it takes to smile?
Everything is so damn hard.
I’ve said it before, for me, feeling depressed is like having no air to breathe. It’s like drowning and watching the light at the surface of the water getting farther and farther away.
But this is the way it is with bipolar disorder. Up and down. Up and down again. I think one of the hardest things for me about being bipolar is not knowing who I am going to wake up to be. Will I be hopeful and determined and beautiful? Or will I be sullen and dark and hopeless?
And the worst thing is when people ask me why? Why am I depressed? I know it’s a gut reaction, I know people just want to fix what is broken, but sometimes there isn’t a reason other than I am bipolar. That is reason enough.