Earlier in the week, before Mother’s Day, I had a session with my therapist that concluded that I “have mad skills (cognitive and coping)” and an “insight that most (people) don’t have.” I was reminded of such great talent like Kay Redfield Jaminson, Vincent van Gogh, Jane Pauley, Georg Cantor, Dick Cavett, Patricia Cornwell, Ernest Hemingway, Florence Nightingale, Edgar Allen Poe, Jackson Pollack and Nina Simone. Yet, rather than appreciate the talent for honesty when years of tact has failed, I’m seen as heartlessly callous regardless of my generosity. It’s so much easier to dismiss my skills for cognitive thinking and poke fun at an illness of which I could not conjure.
Am I the only bipolar that is worthy of invisiblity? The relentless hard-work put into maintaining my own well being gone unnoticed? Is this my birthright to be damned to a lifetime of such a hideous despise?
Seeking a bright light beyond the dark forest is a treacherous lonely path to endeavor. Will the light ever open to a field of never-ending bliss? Am I the only woman to sit alone on holidays that were meant for me to cherish?
Beauty is found by relishing in the days of my youth. When naivety and ignorance of a viciously capricious world is placed far away from swimming pools, riding ocean waves,and the first snow sleigh ride down the street with the biggest hill was all that mattered. Desensitized to the helicopters flying over a foreign jungle. I can close my eyes and capture the beauty of cherry blossoms and dogwoods in first bloom. How I adore that innocence, admire the fearlessness, and envy the freedom of the little girl “that could”. What wealth she had before the clouds of depression came rolling overhead by adolescence. That has led her here. Alone. Secluded to her memories of days gone by. A silent giggle, a lonely tear shed. This is the woman I celebrate or curse… alone.
It is my opinion that for most, loneliness is seen as a sign of weakness but to a few, it is an admirable way to acknowledge what’s real. My example for this idea is obtaining a laceration. Some would convince themselves that it doesn’t hurt. “Buck up” or “it’s just a little cut”. When others would acknowledge that it’s not a cut but, a good sized laceration and yes, it hurts. It hurts a lot and it’s going to continue to be sore until the wound scars over leaving a numbness that will never repair itself.
Obviously, I am the one who feels the pain and acknowledges that the scar has left me with no feeling in that region ever again. A time that has left me with nothing but numbness. Honestly, I don’t know women like me. Who are damned to a life of numbness. Am I or am I not a value to society? I wonder.
I maybe laughed at evidenced by what Joseph F Newton describes “people are lonely because they build walls instead of bridges.” What if, those bridges have been built, rebuilt, repaired, and rebuilt again. This is not an epiphany that I am unaware of such issues as victimhood, social isolation, or neglect. Is misery and self pity not allowed? Not even on Mother’s Day? When are you allowed to feel bitterness, resentment, or even guilt? Is lonilessness a victimhood for a bipolar? Or is it a captive effect? Again, I wonder.
Tomorrow is another day and perhaps I will once again accept the challenge of putting my cherished happiness back in the file and push forward. For today, I don’t feel like seeking new building materials for a better future. I don’t feel like being persistent to mustard the courage to be brave. And I definitely have no routine that rewards me to celebrate.