First off, I want to say that it’s really nice having this Reddit page to feel some sort of support. 

My whole life, my internal experience has been constantly invalidated. And it’s no one’s true fault, as there is an overwhelming lack of public understanding about mental health. But at this point, it’s making me feel so alone in my own mind. 

I’m always being told that I’m creating the story of bipolar in my mind, in which it doesn’t truly exist. That I will grow out of it overtime. 

Anytime my disordered symptoms is shown to the light, (very rare as my treatment is very affective) others will not understand and bombard me with judgement. Such as moments of depression, sadness, hyperactivity, weight fluctuations, unregulated sleep schedules, etc. 

And it’s not just that. It’s also the invalidation of what makes me happy and secure! I’ve learned to accept my bipolar. I am not telling myself a story, I am simply, and FINALLY, learning what my mind really is about and what it needs. These coping mechanisms spark so much judgment onto me. And it makes me feel so fucking lonely. 

There are certain things that FINALLY give me a sense of calm normality to the idea that my disorder is a malicious facade. Like one example is staying up until very late and indulging myself in the creation of art and creativity. Nighttime is the only time I have of free time and mental clarity. Because during the day, I’m in service of others. Work, relationships, responsibilities, etc. or I’m severely depressed and sleeping all day. But at night when everyone is asleep, No matter if I’m debilitatingly depressed or unhingedly manic, that time for me is the essence of giftedness in which my disorder endures. I am finally owning my own willingness to live. I am enjoying this for myself. I am living for myself. 

With those moments of serenity and reminders, I am equipped to take on the hardships of the day. The days that I live and be for other people. 

I am only alive because of my place in other’s lives. I do not plan to leave this earth willingly when my existence is crucial for the well being of others. And I’m so lucky to have these people. And I’m grateful of everything in my life. 

But at the same time, I want to die. I do not want to be in a world of constant dragging of suffering until the inevitable point of the death of the self. I wIsh I could skip the suffering part. 

I want to be a part of everything. I no longer want to feel like a single speck of pure awareness in an isolating body. Although my mind can create beautiful things, what’s the point if it’s completely foreign to the world around you. I do not want to be aware of my individuality. I just want to feel like a part of something in which my mind can finally have a rest on the bench after a long game. 

The sense of self is so debilitating. I can see the ways others perceive me. And I think to myself, “that’s me, the way they see me. That’s me. My identity. Everything else in my head is a delusional of temporary, yet grounding, conclusions. Therefore, I am a literal joke. The deepest cracks of mind is all a joke. Not real. I am a joke. 

I am so fucking dramatic, and maybe I am telling myself a story. Maybe I’m a fucking imposter. 

All I know is what makes me feel whole. What makes me willing to live. But those things are constantly being criticized. I am trying. If I’m gonna live, then let me fucking live.