Anyone could probably tell that I was depressed as a teenager and even before that. Many would say I was just a sullen, typical teenager. Maybe. I remember hating myself and thinking others hated me too. I was not kind to myself. Thoughts of self-harm seemed to keep me steady in situations that might make me explode.
16 was a pocket of joy: I grabbed a hold of the identities of writer and reader. My writing and reading speed were a bit astonishing, and now, I think I can safely say that I was manic. But this mania had long stretch of beauty before it turned on me.
In my mid-20s, I had a time of confidence, hard work that reminded me I was worth something, and building myself instead of tearing and ripping.
But bipolar disorder is sneaky. I got increasingly sick. I couldn't do my work. I didn't love myself anymore, and I certainly didn't trust myself. I didn't take care of myself. I thought my delusions and hallucinations were ridiculous. I lost almost all faith in my intelligence and capabilities. Though I figured someone could help me, I didn't think anyone would. So I waited. I had my typical expectations of myself, and I shamed my inability to meet them. Some of that self-loathing returned.
Bipolar disorder is a part of me, so it knows just how to hurt me and lie to me. Taking that power away from the disorder is an almost-daily task.
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