My therapist tells me that everything said in this room will remain in between the two of us. He asks me why I came in today, and I wonder if I can tell him so much.
I was constantly exhausted pretending that I was always okay. Trying to prove to myself that maybe I wasn’t bipolar.
I distract myself. I call someone and ask them to remind me of what’s good about me. I play video games or read books that have nothing to do with triggering topics. I take a nap. I drink hot tea.
By every measure, I’m getting better. But here’s the confession I’d like to make: Sometimes, I wish I never got better, and I wish I were still in my bed.
I think if I were to describe the feeling it would be an empty black hole that you’re alone in and you can’t find a way out because it’s so deep, and every hour someone passes by this hole and throws a brick at you.
I am doing my best to prioritize self-care. I am redirecting anger into providing information on Puerto Rico’s colonial status; however I cannot dissociate from the heartache. No action can eliminate the exhaustion and the sorrow.
I was later to realize that it was all about control.