Here’s a thing about my Bipolar. Sometimes “difficult” times are beyond difficult, beyond dark. They are black. Though it’s not popular to say in most crowds, sometimes I would like to disappear in that blackness, that dark secret release, wash away in the current of a beautifully obscure river.
Just fade to black.
So instead, I’ve gotta cry. Find a different release for the time being.
Cries because of stress-induced migraines, sick with a virus for almost two weeks, not knowing where I’m going to be living, sleeping for a while and then nothing at all for days, chronic-physical pain that often makes me think I cannot go an inch further…not one step further…not one moment further.
The river. The black. The peace. The quiet, save the gentle sloshing of the water. All on hold.
I am not yet going home. I cry. I sob. I wail. I scream into the pillow. I beat that pillow when I see every single thing wrong splattered across that fluff.
Eventually, I feel better. I know it will come, even during the bad times, which is why I float, but do not allow myself to drown.