(Warning: F Bomb Minefield Ahead)
I woke up furious this morning. It happens sometimes. When I start to shift out of a long siege of depression, there’s no telling what form the sudden influx of energy will take. Anger is a safe bet.
I could see what a wet washrag of a life I’ve had the last two months, and that lit me up. So much hard work just to stand in place. I railed against the shittiness of dragging around a mental illness. I slammed into my car, grabbed coffee and journaled to bleed out the fury.
Fuckit! Fuck being a GOOD GIRL because THAT really works for me. Fuck being the poster girl for crazy. [A friend] asked me yesterday if I had a goal. The only one I could think of was “Stay Out of the Hospital.” What kind of FUCKING goal is that?! Is that the best this putrid hump of a life can give me? Staying out of the hospital, being miserable, and telling myself that’s OKAY?
I’m so sick of myself and my fucking compulsions and Mom’s voice in my head and constantly PUSHINGPUSHINGPUSHING to Do the Right Thing. Take Care of Myself. Fuck this shadow life. FUCK BIPOLAR!
It went on for a few more pages before I started to wind down. You get the picture. When I left Panera to see my therapist, I was still furious, but had a plan about how to use all that hot energy. I decided to make some Fuck Bipolar cards (see below).
I want to give these away, so if you have bipolar disorder or love someone who rages against it, let me know. Put your name and address in a comment (I won’t publicize it), and if you have a preference for either the boy or the girl. I’ll send you one, because I’m making lots.
Because Fuck Bipolar.