In the subsequent months we've developed a cyber rapport and I've seen deeper into this multidimentional young lady through her tweets, but mostly through her introspective poetry and blogs on her sites She's Byepoleher and My Adventures with Her. I don't think anyone will ever understand her, but through her transparency, you can definitely get to know her. As evidenced by what she submitted to me last night, she wants you to try...
Hurts When I Breathe Part II
The pain is the worst part.
People have a difficult time understanding something so foreign, something they can’t see, something that isn’t so black and white.
The pain will always be the worst part.
No bruises. No scars. Just pain. An indescribable pain. The kind of pain that never goes away.
There’s always a small flame in your stomach taunting you. Reminding you that there isn’t anything you can do to get rid of it. Reminding you that the smallest shift in wind will cause the flame to grow faster than you can extinguish. Before you know it, your soul is on fire.
This flame reminding you of all the hurt. This flame reminding you of all your mistakes. This flame telling you that “they” were right when they said what they said. This flame telling you you’re worthless. This flame telling you you’ll never amount to anything. This flame will have you believe that not a soul in this world cares about you, and that’s why you’re laying in this bed, in the dark alone. This flame will convince you that you deserve to be alone. This flame will convince you that everyone is better off without you. This flame that will not go away, ever. This flame will always be there. This flame will tell you you’re better off just walking away from everyone and everything. This flame will tell you you’re a burden. This flame will tell you you’re a fuck up. This flame will make you forget every good time, every good thing, every good moment, every good feeling and convince you this pain is all you know and will ever know.
Then you reach out. “It’s all in your head.” Perhaps someone can tell me what that means. What’s not in your head? What thought is not in your head? What feeling is not in your head? What choice doesn’t begin in your head? What memory isn’t in your head? So why is it that all of a sudden these feelings and these thoughts are false because they’re in my head? Why is it that these feelings and thoughts are to be ignored because they’re in my head? What makes something real? You must believe in it. IT’S IN MY HEAD. It’s in control. It will make you believe it. So why is it not real? It may not be real to everyone else, but for those hours, days, weeks, months it’s very real. And it’s very dangerous. What’s “real” holds no candle to what you believe.
Could you imagine being able to recall the worst moments of your life? And by recall, I mean you can close your eyes and you’re there again. You feel the same feelings. You think the same thoughts. You’re there. Could you imagine not being able to forget them? It makes true forgiveness almost impossible.
I hold no grudges; I understand that it’s this thing that lives inside me who wants me to feel that pain, that misery. I understand that it’s this thing that lives inside me who wants me to succumb to it and break. I understand that it’s this thing. Everyone else has a hard time understanding that it’s this thing.
Forget about trusting anyone. You attempt to give everyone a fair shot at proving themselves trustworthy. But we’re all humans, no one is perfect and we all make mistakes. Unfortunately, I will remember every single mistake. I will remember every single lie and indiscretion. I will remember every broken promise. I will try to remind myself of this thing. I will try to remind myself of the positives that outweigh the negatives, but this thing outweighs them all.
Forget about sympathy. People who don’t have this thing can’t sympathize or empathize, there’s always an underlying pity. There’s always this lack of true understanding. Each person who has this thing suffers differently. Sure there are similarities, but each thing is a result of each person’s life. It’s difficult to have a general idea of what this thing is, because it’s custom. My thing is not necessarily like her thing. Sure it’s the same thing, but her year is different, her make and model is different, his size is different, mine is for me only. Lucky, huh?
There is no cure for this. It can be life-threatening. Way more stigmas connected to it than any of us who have it can count. Way more misconceptions than accurate depictions. There’s no face for it. It could be you, your brother or sister, your mother or father, your uncle or aunt.
I’m Alexa. I have Bipolar Disorder II.
Follow her on Twitter @byepoleher
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