Linda
Human yo-yo
Please note: This story may trigger

The person I love asks me what it’s like to have bipolar disorder.  I wonder if he really wants to know.  His laugh can’t hide the terror I know is in him.  When I explained that I had nearly blown my head off that day, he wanted to know if I was joking.  I was crying inside – how could I joke?  But I made it through that day and every day for the past four years.

I remember the first time that I tried to kill myself. I remember calling for help and then beginning to hurt myself all over again. The cops rescued me. Tears and more tears. None of it seemed real. It was like some nightmare come to earth. The emergency room was cold and unfriendly. A nurse calmly bandaged my arm as if she saw this every day. Questions, so many they made my head spin. Green walls and locked rooms flooded my mind. I was all alone, but safe from myself. The people cared; they wanted to know my story. They begged me to tell them why. And I don’t know why, only that something is wrong and I cannot fix it alone. Then they made me leave. I pleaded with them not to. There I was safe.

At home with only my family to protect me, I was a danger. I began to meet with counselors, each promised to help. None could, they saw only half of my disease. Until I met one unlike the rest, “Bipolar, not depression…” she explained. I was started on medicines. Four weeks later I am still waiting for them to kick in. So here I am; still struggling. 

What does it feel like to have this illness?  Life feels meaningless. Every night you pray that you will close your eyes and painlessly drift away. Every morning you wake up to another day of silent screaming. Your mind is begging for it to end, but you still care about living…

Even worse, some days you are so crazily happy that you don’t know what’s happening. Your mind is racing with each uncontrollable thought that enters it. Each new doctor claims that they can fix you. They see your lows, and not your hidden highs. You’re a danger to yourself, or so they say. The medicines aren’t enough to stop this. They can’t control my rapid highs and lows yet. I feel like a yo-yo on God’s sick string.

I tell him this. And he hugs me until it hurts for me to breathe. He leaves and I reach for my razor. Resting it in my palm, I feel the cool blade press against my warm skin. Slowly, my fingers loosen their ready position. I need to end this. With one quick motion, I’ve thrown the razor away. Shaking, I pick up something even more powerful. The phone.