I think my defenses are down. I think my ship is going down. I think I may die in the mud. I think I may drown in a puddle of my own tears. I cannot pretend that I am alright because I’m not, yet I do. I try hard to put that smile on my face and participate. You’ll never know how fucking hard that is. I do it for you. I feel some sort of obligation to be “happy” and well ever since my suicide attempt. Like he no longer deserves the wrath of my bipolar, only I do. So I keep it all inside. I shove it down. I dance around as if all is right with the world when it isn’t. Who is this a dis-service too?
Having a mental illness and being in a relationship, for me its marriage, is so difficult sometimes. The extra shame and guilt I carry for not only being sick, but for how it affects him, our marriage, my job, our financial stability. We are interlocked. I do love this man. He has stood by me through so much. You have no idea how much. Yet, there are just a few things I cannot talk to him about and that’s suicide. I just can’t get the words to come out, whether I am about to follow through with a plan, or thinking about it or reliving my recent attempt. I want to protect him. From what? He was there, he was part of it. It had him spinning. He is not naïve to this situation. But, I still carry him on my back.
The memories of that day are flooding me. The pain of that day is wrapping itself around me like a prickly vine. Every move is a reminder. I’m having dreams that I should have hung myself by the river. There are plenty of trees that overhang the bank. No need to take that step off the ladder, just hang. No second chances. No one would find me til I was cold. Long gone. However, that is not what I chose to do. I chose a personal place and that is eating me up as well. Why keep talking about this anyway.
When I wasn’t brave enough to step off the ladder I took pills. This is the easy way out, and almost certainty you will live. And I knew that.
So here I am facing another shit storm in my mind. Strength to keep fighting is withering away. I have no sword, no magic bullet. Just pain. In the past, I have cut myself to help “ease” this pain. A temporary solution that leaves scars you then have to answer to. But for a few brief moments it works, gets you outside your head. Perhaps like a few shots of alcohol might do at the moment. I feel weak because I can’t sit in the pain, and I can’t end the pain with my own hands. I am entrenched. This is me. These symptoms are part of me.
Its like a circus carousel gone haywire. Spinning faster and faster. Can’t get off. Can’t breathe. The force of gravity knocking you down. Can’t get your footing. Lost. Looking for a way out constantly. But you are held down. Through it all you are still wearing your costume. At a moments notice the act can begin no matter how dizzy. Its all my fault really. There is free will in this. I can take off the glitter and glam. I can show my vulnerability, my insecurities and fears…if I allow myself. If I want to. Perhaps my ship is going down because it is to heavy with bullshit.
123 RV, SA, JW, RW, PA, JZM