Who am I?

Which of my feelings are real? Which of the me’s is me? The wild, impulsive, chaotic, energetic, and crazy one? Or the shy, withdrawn, desperate, suicidal, doomed, and tired one? Probably a bit of both, hopefully much that is neither.
Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness

I started this blog with who the fuck am I cycling worriedly through my mind. A couple of months later and I’ve resolved my own I am/I have bipolar dichotomy in favour of am, so that goes a little way towards answering the question. And the question itself doesn’t matter nearly as much now anyway. It would be lovely to think there’s a happy (insert hollow laugh here) medium, where a balanced me could access the traits of unbalanced me’s, but people like me get meds instead.

Bipolar robs you of that which is you. It can take from you the very core of your being and replace it with something that is completely opposite of who and what you truly are. Because my bipolar went untreated for so long, I spent many years looking in the mirror and seeing a person I did not recognize or understand. Not only did bipolar rob me of my sanity, but it robbed me of my ability to see beyond the space it dictated me to look. I no longer could tell reality from fantasy, and I walked in a world no longer my own.
Alyssa Reyans, Letters from a Bipolar Mother

I am now so close to the possibility of that grey bipolar balance I’ve read so much about. The goal of remission isn’t simple though, is it? Yes, the hope is for a break from rather serious pain, but … I had a sudden flashback the other day, of a me with feelings. I’m bleeding love, I thought to myself, I love as hard as a heart attack, a happy helium heart literally bursting all over the goddamn sky … and then I wondered if I’d ever feel that way again.

I’d wasted so much of my life. So many of my days, and all of my promise, all of my dreams, lost to hospitals, to depression, to wanting to die. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This is not who I am.
Except, of course, it was. It was all there was left to be.
Alexis Hall, Glitterland

Of course, I have to focus on having a break from feeling like hell. Maybe I’ll even want to live. I just can’t imagine it. I must try not to allow my own memory to fool me. I shall sit on my stoep and watch the sky grow hazy and chant grey is okay.


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