Combined with the turbulence of mixed bipolar disorder, mental illness became the driver and I its unwilling passenger. I closed my eyes during those early months, refusing to see the cliff we were headed for. If I were to open my eyes, I would have lost control and be as weak as I had always feared. Once I did open my eyes, it was too late.
I am intelligent and capable, qualities I couldn’t reconcile with anxiety. A strong person wouldn’t take fifty consecutive pregnancy tests or make everyday decisions through self-torment and sleepless nights. They wouldn’t be repeatedly admitted to a psychiatric hospital, colouring in mandalas and making paper mobiles. They wouldn’t be consumed with suicide, punching themselves as punishment for their weakness. They would be able to get out of bed, shower, work and keep a clean house. They could achieve.
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