I Hate Myself

I hate myself. I hate that I need to rely on medication in order to be "just like everyone else". I hate the fact that there is a "new" me, that I have to be "normal".  Most of all, I hate that I have bipolar disorder and I have to control it.

I had an appointment with my psychologist yesterday. He made mention that with all I have going on in my life; I look as if I am "pulled together". What I didn’t tell him is that behind the closed doors of my mind, I am not as in control as I look on the outside. I struggle. I long for the feelings and behaviors associated with the manic aspect of bipolar disorder.

I miss the feeling of euphoria found in the simplest of pleasures. I loved the feeling of the breeze against my body. I would throw my arms in the air, spread my fingers as far as they could, and twirl around in delight. With my eyes closed, I would lean my head back, my face pointing toward the sky, and feel the glorious warmth of the sun on my body. I would inhale the fresh air and smell the fragrance of the flowers. Although I know that my experiences with such things were exaggerated, to me they were invigorating.

I used to be impulsive. I would say what I wanted. People who knew me would chalk it up to my personality. To me, my comments were mind blowing revelations. To others, it was probably crazy talk. It did not matter.

Grandiosity; that one word evokes excitement for me. There were times when I thought I could do anything. Be anything. The world was mine. I believed that I had the ability to achieve anything I wanted, I couldn’t be held back. I would follow my wildest aspirations. I could soar to the brightest star. I felt invincible. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing could stop me, not even reality.

Others allowed themselves to be held back by conventional wisdom, I had the ability to think beyond the limitations placed by the world. I was innovative. I would come up with ideas that I perceived to be brilliant. I had the innate power to accomplish tasks that no one in their right mind would attempt. I did not have time to sleep. My drive was strong. I had to reach my goal at any cost; even if the cost was my sanity.

On the surface, my transition between bipolar madness and a life of normalcy is running smoothly. Behind the external façade, I am broken up inside. I miss the manic part of me. At times it feels like life is not worth living. The loss of the “gifts” that I am forced to leave behind tears me up inside. It was an important part of me.

Inside, I am trying to prevent the “crazy” in me from breaking through. I pretend to be fine with having a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. It takes every ounce of my being to stay composed so that everyone will think that I am coping with having my illness in a positive manner. I pretend to be fine. I can’t deny that I am only doing it because it is the right thing to do; I am expected to be responsible.

I hate that I have to lose the attributes that I have always loved. I hate what I am forced to become; something I am not. I hate myself.