June was so weird I forgot that it marked three years since I got my bipolar diagnosis. An anniversary of some kind. That day was the lowest point of my life. Well, no longer.
I remember reading a lot about how to accept things like this. And someone on Reddit said that it's been ten years and they're still grieving. And I understand.
I should find another support group. But it's hard. And forcing myself to go the meetings is even harder.
I think about the first bipolar person in my life a lot these days. Granted we are different types. Last time I checked she was still alive.
I also think about the ways people act once you start displaying the very symptoms that you've told them you have. No one owes me shit obviously but also when you leave maybe leave quietly? Also the symptoms that scare people so much do not add up to be even half of all the things I have going on at any given moment. So that's interesting. And it's not like I'm violent or anything. It's just that simply mentioning mental illness or being quiet is a breaking point for some people apparently.
As for people who claim to love me they really don't understand shit. If you love me then let me cvt in peace.
Being bipolar is kind of like being undead. And some perverted necromancer keeps bringing you back again and again. And it's not life, it's an imitation. But the alternative is to just rot. I mean remission is a thing. But this shit sent me spiraling because who am I without my illness anyway. Like there is nothing beyond that. I'm just a bunch of symptoms glued together. And the combination isn't even that interesting.
This is a terrible place to die in.
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