Another night has gone by. The dread of going another day is overwhelming. I feel tired. I ask myself how did it come to be like this. Welcome to another day in paradise.
Throughout my twenties, I knew something wasn’t right. It was more than depression. If I were to succeed at – insert future goal here – then everything would be fine. I think I got there for a brief period when I turned the tables on being diagnosed with Bipolar. If you can’t beat em, join em, so I became a nurse. A psych nurse. My outlook was more realistic this time. Life would still be a challenge, but perhaps there is an opportunity for some balance. Wrong again. Politics and negative culture started to take its toll. I began to sink. Moving to another city gave me hope. But I never recovered. My world was dark, when literally, things were supposed to be sunny. The damage was done and it was time to cash in my chips.
The mission failed, but new opportunity brought renewed hope. A chance to come home again. Be close to my best friend. Get involved with a creative line of work. There was nothing more to prove.
How could this have also gone so painfully wrong? How did everything become so dark again?
Six years after being diagnosed, my hands are up in the air. I’m screaming out “Why?” And “How?”.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow. Mid-thirties and on disability. No network of friends. No supportive family. No partner. No kids. No career.
How did I get to the point were life was so dark, meaningless and empty? How do I pull myself out from this abyss? Is this my destiny?
Will I get another chance at finding love? Will I ever be able to hold down employment? Will I be able to trust people again?
I know that fear holds me back. I know that I choose to remain in the dark. It’s safer. Anything that I have tried to achieve and sustain has always backfired. Even when I thought, “this is my passion”. “This is where I belong in life”.
It’s not all supposed to revolve around having a Mental Illness. There should be things to off-set that. Instead I am highly consumed by the things that are. Tortured by the things that were. I need a purpose. Some kind of direction. There is more to do, but self-confidence doesn’t support aspiration.
This is where self-pity turns into inner rage. I didn’t ask for any of this. Why did my family fail to protect me when it mattered most. Not just on one occasion, but multiple times. I inherited this illness and for 29 years, the person I was and the life that I lived was a complete lie. More than six years after finding out the truth, the damage has been done. I may have some answers now, but I am screaming on this inside. My innocence lies in a state of ruin. My strengths have been taken away without my consent. My weaknesses have become front and center of my existence. I have been stripped down naked and exposed for all the world to see.
This is bullshit of the highest quality and I would appreciate a full refund or exchange.