Do you ever wonder what the fuck Darwin was thinking when he put together your broken ass body?
Maybe he was thinking, “Let’s build this one with a system so fragile that any physical illness will shock the mainframe and render it completely useless.” Real funny, Darwin. Real funny.
But I guess the joke’s on me because I’m the one with the flu, stuck here inside this fucked up head and you get to sip margaritas and enjoy the boobies over in the Galapagos.
You know, we think of bipolar as a cycle of up and down- a crazy rollercoaster ride. Even the crazy carnies seem stable from where you are. But really, the true evil of bipolar isn’t up or down (though that would be bad enough), it’s when it takes you off the rollercoaster entirely and into the funhouse.
In the funhouse, nothing is what it seems. Your perception of everything is skewed. Your mind plays tricks on you. You try to see straight but you just can’t see through the smoke. And the (possibly) worst part is that you’re not even sure if you are really in the funhouse or not.
And even though you’ve been there so many times before, the funhouse changes and seems so different each time. You have a feeling that you may never leave and you can remember that you had this feeling before and you must have left but because things are different this time, maybe this time you will get stuck for real. Or maybe you never did leave the funhouse. Maybe instead of being back again, you are still here. Maybe you never really left. Maybe you can never really leave this place. It just keeps pulling you back.
You try to find a reason that you are back in the funhouse. Maybe if you can find out what brought you here, you can figure out how to get out. But it never works that way. You’ll never know exactly what brought you there and you’ll never be able to think your way out of it.
You just have to wait it out. You have to somehow trust that there is life outside of this funhouse and once upon a time you were there and you have to trust that you will return. You have to do the right things even though you feel huge guilt shipping your children to their grandparents…again… while you hang out in the funhouse.
If you could only believe that you don’t always live in this funhouse, that life does make more sense, it may make this ‘time-out’ easier. But that’s the extra kick in the balls – perspective. You have no perspective. You have no memory. You are confused. You are terrified.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what it really means to be bipolar.