Shame

Objectively, I know that this is an illness.  Bipolar is an illness.  Alcohol, self-medication, is part of being unwell.  I understand.  When it comes to others I am a rational person.

But when it comes to me…

The overriding feeling is shame.  I’m ashamed of the shakiness, the nausea, ashamed of being pale under brown skin.  I’m ashamed of the nightmares that keep me awake.  Of the need for comfort.  Of the failure to cope.  Of the scars.  Of the hypomanic sex, thoughtflight, irrational rage.  Of hurting people through thopughtlessness, anger, indiscretion.  And mostly:  Of not being able to help it. Not being in control.  Of always needing.

  In my head I hear constant noise.  Loser.  Idiot.  Pathetic.  Ridiculous.  Stupid.  Childish.  Sick. And the circles spin until I want to be invisible, until I’d die to be invisible.  Today I cried for an hour just thinking.  With the noise in my head telling me I deserve this.  I am being punished.  This wouldn’t happen if I hadn’t done the things I have done.

But now I am accepting… that this won’t go away.  I am having my medication upped.  I am going to get help with the drinking.  I want to change.  I’m doing an MA.  When I’m rational, when I’m sane, sober, I know I’m smart.  It’s what I’ve always had.

And… I’m in love with someone.  These are things to live for, stay sane for.  I want to be happy and it’s going to be hard.

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