Being bi-polar is tricky. Lord, Have Mercy.
It's sneaky.
You can't hide from it.
You can't outrun it.
You can't out think it.
You don't always know how bad its gotten until you are deep in the throes of an episode.
All the doctors say I am delusional.
I think something is inside me, eating me alive.
If I am manic, I think it is perfectly fine to operate on myself to get this thing out.
I almost bleed to death, fainting on the hospital sidewalk.
I am checked out spread eagle, every which way and again and again they find nothing physical except an ulcer and stress from another depressive low-low. Now I have to think Okay. What if they are right? (Something I have never considered until now.)
Now that I know I am not dying, I tell my aching delusional body that we are going to boot camp. I am the Coach and I do not stand for whining, wallowing, hypochondriac slackers! Uh-uh. No Sir, Missy. No way. No how. I'm going to work you so hard, you'll hurt for real! You are getting in fighting shape! Do you understand? What? I can't hear you! Louder!!
I shed my skin to begin yet again
I am going to pretend the Doctors are right until I think so too.
Baby is going to the gym where she learns the difference between real and phantom pain, and gets in fighting shape to boot.
Baby with wrinkles and whiskers, you are far from done.
Now: Engage, Mr. Spock. Engage!
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