Today, I heard of a guy who apparently attempted to cycle to Afghanistan to help liberate the people there. He didn't even get past the Malaysian borders. He didn't even have a passport. Apparently he didn't even leave the vicinity of KL. The authorities stopped him, and started interrogating.
But here's the thing. It triggered something in me. For someone to do such a thing, to possibly just wake up one morning and decide to go on a mission, that person has to have some bipolar quirks. There's no other way to say it, or explain it. There is only one thing that can drive a person to do such a thing; an act out of compulsion that baffles many - mania. When one is manic, that person can do many things that the person can't even explain why or how...
Which got me to thinking. I realised that my bipolar disorder was both a blessing and a curse. I mean, if I never had this illness, I don't think I would have lived my life the way I did. In fact, most of my living was done out of compulsions and impulse. Living feels free when you are manic. You are in control, you are happy, you are literally on top of the world. On numerous occasions, I have felt like I was set up on a mission. I read an article somewhere about someone who was bipolar who offered to drive a busload of kids somewhere, and halfway through, he got bored and just left. A little selfish, definitely, but who else would do something like that? To visit the extreme of life?
But sometimes, I do wonder, if I'm old and dying and when I think back upon my life, will I just see specks of craziness that peppered my entire life? I sometimes wish for stability - to wake up feeling one way, and to go to bed feeling the same. And NOT feeling numb, or numbed by the pain. I always say this, but I can't help but feel this way: that I never asked to be born with this; I didn't choose it, it chose me. For some reason, it chose me.
So I have no choice but to fight it, or succumb to it, or basically, live with it. This illness makes me strange. And people don't like strange. This illness ruined all my relationships. Nobody could accept me fully for who I am, or was, because of what I have (even before I was diagnosed). Relationships are ruined by violence; fiery words that meet fist fights and tight slaps, especially when I encounter another person who has issues. My bipolar is made worse when I am with someone volatile. It becomes undeniably an abusive relationship, though it took me years to realise this. And just like most abusive relationships, you can't get out. You simply can't. On good, manic days, you only see the good in your partner and yourself, and there is no other craziness that resembles the euphoria of love like mania. Then the bad days come, and you cower, with no self-confidence, taking in word after word after word, bringing you down, down, down, into the lowest point you can get to. On even worse days, the relationship turns physically abusive - from slaps to punches on the stomach to hair pulling to shoving.
It has come to a point where I realise my struggles with bipolar will always be a personal struggle. To however amount I affect others, I am always alone.
After all, when I was in the hospital, having nurses pump my stomach, I was literally alone. I had no one to hold my hand. All I could hear was the voice of a nurse taunting me, asking me why I didn't just swallow the entire bottle.
And later on, to hear from a doctor that I took enough of it that I could have killed a horse. But I lived. For some strange reason, I lived.
So on days and nights when I feel like I have no purpose, I think back to that night. And I wonder why I lived. So maybe I'll never have relationships. Maybe I'll never have a proper career. Maybe I'll never be able to have a family. Maybe, simply put, nobody will want me.
But here's the deal. I am here. I am alive. My fingers are slowly letting go of this string called life, but I'm still hanging on.
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