Hi, I’m Charles.
I don’t thank my bipolar.
Not a single thing.
I acknowledge my illness, I understand it, I make my peace, but I don’t give my bipolar any credit. That belongs to me.
With or without it I’m fabulous.
And my Mental illness can go fuck itself.
If I could take a pill that would cure me, I would snatch it right out of your hand and swallow it dry. Because my bipolar disorder doesn’t make me special, it makes my life complicated. My bipolar disorder doesn’t make me brave. It’s not the source of my strength. It lingers under the surface of my consciousness, wheedling into my brain and poisoning how I feel about myself and how I experience the world.
I’m special, brave, strong, and talented without my illness. Bipolar disorder isn’t a trial that I need to tackle in order to show the world I’m tough enough. I don’t need an illness to exaggerate my awesomeness. With an illness that mimics identity it can be hard to tell where bipolar ends and I begin. The boundaries are never that distinct. But my bipolar disorder isn’t a badge. It’s a label, a diagnosis, a hefty, troublesome detail. My bipolar doesn’t get to take a bow.