I miss me. That free spirit I used to be. That wacky girl everyone called weird because they didn’t know how else to describe my ups and downs, my quirky interests.
I used to, for brief manic periods, grab like by the throat and live it to the bone, my way, even if it meant months indoors writing. I LIVED life and sometimes even loved it and the contentment I felt.
I miss those fleeting periods of joy, even if it was without reason. I did stupid things, I was irresponsible, I was hurtful to others, I made a mess of my life. Still..I had a life. I miss me.
It was nice to find an explanation for all the wackiness that did not stay in keeping with my normal character. Bipolar. Up and down. Unfortunately, since mood stabilizers, I have few ups and live most of my life in a depression or a state of numbness. I miss me.
As bad as the mania was…It was lived with joy, with fervor. It was better than never feeling joy, always feeling despair. Feeling too exhausted to even enjoy things normally to my liking.
Getting a diagnosis didn’t really help. It doesn’t change a thing. I can never live down my past and all my poor decisions made during the manic highs. Nothing can be undone. There is no forgiveness by most. It makes me wonder why I bother suppressing the one part of myself that was actually alive. I miss me.
“Take back your power.” They tell me. “Fight harder. Be who you want to be, don’t let this illness rob you of joy.”
It’s too late. The scars are etched too deeply into my skin. The fingerprints of the past are imprinted on my soul. I cannot be out of control, I am miserable under control, and it doesn’t change a damned thing either way. My mistakes follow me and taint everything I try to do. Even when I let it go and give myself a break…There’s always someone to point out how I made a mess of my life. To use the cliche, people don’t change, so for all effort to get better, do better, be better…counts for nothing. I miss me.
I keep trying. I remember me. I do all the things I used to do, the difference is it is without true joy and I am too shellshocked by own state of mind to utilize the things I buy/do. All that make up piled up that I don’t even take out of the package yet still feel compelled to buy because it’s cheap and it’s who I once was. The stationary supplies because that, too, was who I used to be. Pens, pencils, funky paper clips and paper. It gathers dust in another room. I buy cute clothes at yard sales, thinking, I can be girly again, wear skirts, be feminine like I used to be. Those clothes remain unworn and I struggle just to toss on slobwear. I. Miss.Me.
I remember me. I was that girl full of hopes and dreams, even if they were motivated by mania. I wanted something more out of life. I wanted to find my soul mate, to live happily ever after. Now, all the failures in spite of my best efforts, thwart any desire for companionship. I’ve given up because I have a kid now and I can’t juggle a relationship as well. It takes too much out of me and I can’t change the mood cycles. It’s insanity, doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome. I didn’t use to feel like that, I thought everything and anything was possible if you desired it enough. I miss me.
“Suck it up, stop being a wussy and letting it win,” They tell me.
Until you’ve walked in these uncomfortable shoes, you have no right to say that to me. I’ve fought. I’ve tried. I have done every single thing that was ever supposed to help me, even when I found it asinine. I did it anyway. All I’ve ever wanted is to be stable, to enjoy life, to be me again. Because I miss me.
The husk you see before you now. The one you see as so negative and defeatist…Trust me when I say, she didn’t used to exist. She is the aftermath of so much failure, so much pain, so much soul sucking depression and doctors who don’t care beyond stabilizing my moods.Even when the stable mood is constant depression. She’s always had a darkness to her because it was fun..The extreme to which it has grown shames me but I’ve come to terms with being a little light, and a lot dark. Still…I miss me.
That free spirit who’d walk up to strange men and ask to run my fingers through their long hair because, well, it’s just my thing. The wacky lady who danced in public if music was playing. That wildwoman who’d ride the springy rides at the park like a carefree child. What others saw as insanity and immaturity…That was me living life to the fullest. I miss me.
Because not all of the moods were mania. Some of it was just me being free spirited and enjoying being silly. The mood stabilizers have swept that person under the rug, the depressions crushing whatever remains. I miss me.
I have a child now and being stabilized isn’t a choice. It’s necessity so I do right by her, I don’t have the luxury of acting like a lunachick anymore.
I still miss me.