August 15, 2012
The tears would not stop falling. They began soaking into my mom’s nightgown and the sheets of her bed. My head was rested on her stomach and she stroked my hair and whispered, “It’s going to be ok. It’s going to take time. We don’t hate you. Why would we ever hate you? It just takes time.” She continued to whisper this to me as I laid curled up in her bed disrupting her attempt at sleep as well as crushing my dad’s hope for watching some bedtime t.v. in peace.
“But, but, but I have always bounced back and been strong and able to recover. Why can’t I recover from this? I recovered from the hospitalizations in less time than this!!! I’m such a loser. Why can’t I beat this and pull myself back up?” I whimpered softly in between hiccups.
“You will. You just had so much happen in such a short period of time. No one could be expected to handle all of those things in the same amount of time and NOT breakdown, bipolar or not!” my mom declared as she continued to stroke my hair. “We are here. We will help you get back up. You don’t have to do this alone.”
Listening to her words just made the tears flow faster. I have always been able to pick myself back up as a fully functioning adult again, brushed off the dust, and gotten things in my life back in order and running on my own.
Have I needed to? No.
Could I have asked for help? Yes.
So why didn’t I?
Because the people that I wanted to help me, or in my own improperly balanced brain world thought should help me, wouldn’t. So, what does every irrationally thinking person do?That’s right. I took that to mean that NO ONE would, so why bother asking for help. Sadly, that was my IRrational way of thinking for the first 31 or so years of my life. But, it was that way of thinking that got me to fight through the bad and turn it into good on my own. It couldn’t have been ALL bad to think that way. I mean, it taught me that I could do anything I set my mind to and handle anything thrown my way. I was a fighter and that’s just who I was. Throw it at me. I was used to it. I was getting stuff thrown at me in all directions all the time. My recovery time was improving with each one.
So why couldn’t I fight through this? Why couldn’t I get back up?
As I continued to lay with my mom, letting the tears just keep right on falling, I began to feel a lot like Hilary Swank in the movie Million Dollar Baby. Is this the fight that I will never recover from? Has bipolar knocked me out for good?