I will say this in the best simplified way possible: Living + mental illness =out of control. I felt, unable to control my moods. It was alien to me that I should at least try to recover my mood. Trying to do that is like trying to shake hands with a lion. The time I spent within the four walls of my bedroom surrounded around me the terror I felt–I used and still use alcohol to medicate these feelings. I say 'still use' because the last time I touched alcohol was last night, at a party. The flashbacks I experienced as a result are haunting me.
The unheard stories about suicide attempts of a friend who lives with depression, woke me up to the reality that bipolar disorder would not go away. I would never heard of these stories if it weren't for her being absolutely smashed out of head just to feel something. Bipolar will always be part of me, and at this time in my life, still young as I am writing these words, I want to be free. Free from the illness. Alcohol allowed me to adopt another identity: I am an addict. And that seemed better than being bipolar.
The unheard stories about suicide attempts of a friend who lives with depression, woke me up to the reality that bipolar disorder would not go away. I would never heard of these stories if it weren't for her being absolutely smashed out of head just to feel something. Bipolar will always be part of me, and at this time in my life, still young as I am writing these words, I want to be free. Free from the illness. Alcohol allowed me to adopt another identity: I am an addict. And that seemed better than being bipolar.
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