Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are interesting. I’ve learned that I’m fucked up. I’ve learned that I’ll probably die drunk and I’ve learned that 4 out of 5 people diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder think that everyone who won’t prescribe what they want can kiss their ass.
Personally, I’m the 1 out of 5. I just want someone to fix the chemical imbalance in my brain. I’d love a cure. I’d love a treatment with no side effects. I’d love to not want to die because I feel like a failure for being this way.
They keep telling me to pray and I keep screaming at THEIR higher power, “FUCK YOU! WHY AM I LIKE THIS?”
But then I have days where the anxiety isn’t there, I don’t have shaking in my body, my brain works fine, and I think that just maybe…just maybe I’m not Bipolar. I lie to myself about that. My disease of alcoholism takes over and tells me it can cure everything that is wrong.
And then I start all over again.
It’s called a vicious cycle. I’m the Countess of Vicious Cycles.