(30 sec read) Every life moment lost big or small can be directly tied to my personal struggle with *bipolar. Jobs quit and projects fired. Hearts broken and lives trampled. Addictions spun spanning planets. Trouble loving being loved. Pushing away teeth unsheathed. Howling at the moon fever-driven mad. Trauma fraught and body busted, dwindling under a manic sun half baked f#cking crazy.

And those lifelong loves you once longed for, come waltzing back one random manic day seeking solace, only to turn away scared once again long before pleading’s even possible “please wait… I’m not like this tomorrow. I promise.”

The promises to yourself you keep breaking. Because life without hope is too painfully hopeless.

The tragedy of managing daily mental illness is not in how I feel, but in how everything I’ve touched forever being lost while I feel, dropped from my two hands alone like clunky buckets down a drought-fraught well. No one left to blame; just echoes down a darkened hole. There are no second chances, only failure and new beginnings. Wandering a ball of rock and fire no one leaves alive.

Being mentally ill is never an excuse to spread hurt. But sometimes it’s a reason. That said, it’s not always personal. Unless you want to beef with Gods.

*Bipolar type 2 rapid cycling. Or at least that’s what they tell me.

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