I don’t talk about it. Dealing with it takes all I’ve
got on most days—the highs and lows. Never mind the stigmata. It’s been tough
on my family—shit, it’s been tough on me.
So why talk about it at all? It might help others
understand my writing—subject, style, and emotions. I cannot help what goes on
in my noggin. And those who walk my road know the gist—whining gets you jack. I
won’t even get into the trauma I’ve inflicted on myself over the
years. That’s a bloody and terrible tale for another day.
My fiancée and I have some interesting
discussions, to say the least: a poor black girl from the hood and a
poor-to-middling white boy from the country. She hasn’t always known about my
situation. Lately, we’ve talked more on the subject—the ebb and flow of moods
and emotions. She doesn’t fully understand why shit’s not lined up in my brain.
The luck of the draw, I tell her. But here’s the deal: she gets it—and that’s
the difference.
What does that mean exactly? There's no coddling (not my scene, man), and she doesn’t give me the old “suck it up” routine (I
don’t shirk a responsibility—never have). She gives me space when the melancholy
hits. When the turn comes, and I’m riding the high, she’s right there with me.
We rock steady.
The roughest aspect: my son. I beat myself up over
him. The sheer confusion of his daddy’s shifting moods—how difficult must it be
for a young child to deal with those valleys and mountains? He’s such a great
kid—easily the single best thing that’s ever happened to me. And somehow, even
with his youth, he gets it too. Never underestimate the beauty and intelligence
of a child.
Perspective: People will treat you differently because
you’re bipolar. People will leave you because you’re bipolar. People will say
it’s a choice to act this way (in some cases, it can be—if you don’t take care
of yourself or give up completely). But, if you’re lucky and have the stones to
let people in, you might find a person or two to back your play. We’ll label it
empathy—fuck sympathy.
I deal by putting it down on paper. Everything—balls
deep. I have to write—what’s going down on the page is what’s going down inside.
I don’t have a choice but to write.
And I won’t stop.
I hope you won’t either.
