Disorders and vulnerability

So my exhibitionist me started blogging again. I have a very strange time perspective- either too slow or too fast. I bought the domain for this blog over a year ago thinking I would start posting right away but here we are, almost 1,5 years later.

And I also started therapy- again.

I’m crashing. The past months have been crazy and projects accumulating on each other in my rusty tin of mind. I admit that I’m bipolar but yet when in front of my therapist I can’t acknowledge the fact. It feels like to be reduced to infantilism. I have two doctors, one who checks everything is ok and the other who with CBT will teach me “mindfulness”. Today I meet the doctor. He asks me if I eat properly. Of course, I reply, not revealing my fast food diet or sugar addiction.

Do you sleep enough? I nod although I’m lucky if I get 6h of sleep like last night. He looks concerned. I try to give a serious facial expression to hide the fact that I find the whole situation funny. Yap, here I am again despite of the “crisis plan they laid out for me and the talks about how being without medication is not to play with. But I also laugh over the scene. Here we are, two people stuck in an institution and confined to our strict roles. He is playing the psychiatric and me the patient. I occasionally feed him what he wants to hear. ‘Yes, I will take the meds when necessary’. And ‘of course I will do my best to be home before 10 pm….What, common, isn’t 8pm a bit early though’, I protest. ‘Are people really usually home by then?’

He looks at me as if the question is ridiculous but being a professional he answers the question. ‘I would say that 8pm is even late. But what do I know, maybe it’s just me. I’m a typical lone wolf. I really like to be home but that’s maybe because I…’

The sentence is never finished. He looks at me. I smile. For a moment there we stepped out of our roles. Just two people talking and sharing. To restore the order he takes on a more authoritarian voice, clears his throat as if to drown out what he was just about to reveal about himself. I want to tell him that I don’t give a shit about the patient doctor relationship. How do I tell him that I just got accepted to psychology eduction and that in some years I might have patients myself? But I leave that out and go back to the role as the crazy one. He informs me of the importance of routines because otherwise I might end up in a manic phase again which we already concluded I was in. He adds:’ You might burn out and get depressed and when you get depressed you risk to want to…’

Again he doesn’t finish the sentence but I get it. I might want to die. That’s why I started therapy again last year. After had stood on the bridge ready to jump. The sky exploded with fire works and the silhouette of Stockholm laid like a flat collage from far distance. I imagined the scenes in there, house parties waiting for the count down, strained family dinners or couples still believing in love. And I had never felt so lonely in my whole life. And I just thought, knew in the deepest that no one could ever understand such a pain.

Well obviously I didn’t die that evening and later I read somewhere that new years eve is the peak of “self-inflicted deaths”. No need to mention that I felt like a living cliché but hey, it was kind of funny as well. How ridiculously loathing the pain can become. But yes, mr. doctor was right. We didn’t want to end up there again. It just gets too messy for everyone.

I won’t get manic, I replied, knowing that it was already a broken promise but session was ending soon and we needed to wrap up. I wanted to give him a good day, assure him that he was saving lives but inside I still long for a therapist who have a more holistic approach to disorders (that’s why I want to study psychology).

I might be in denial but I still think that a disorder is to simplify my state, my life. I’ve been through these patterns all my life and understood at early age that I wasn’t like ‘everybody else’. Later I discovered that disorders paradoxically can be fun. Especially a bipolar one. Think of it, I’m officially crazy, bananas, out of my freaking mind! This kind of gives me a free card to not conform to society. I can be a sort of artist with a complicated soul. But there’s something more in the darkness of the soul.

I don’t feel that bipolar is my biggest problem. My biggest struggle is how to be a human, how to live life as truthfully as possible. I used to think that I was suicidal because I simply wanted to die (daah, what else?) but events and experience in past years have directed me to the understanding that the death wish actually was a thirst to cease the separation I felt towards other people, an estrangement I believed is caused by our egos. It was a death from separateness, uniting with others I wanted. So actually it is love I am longing for, not death. And not love in the romantic way. No, a more sacred deeper sense of love for humanity and life. I hope you manage to follow the logic.

I find the world we live in to be a mass psychosis cage where we all are busy being the person we think we are, this avatar/ ego who needs to protect itself in order to not be hurt or show vulnerability. In the process of trying to be me (or the person I think I am) I need to prove myself to others. For me this is the real madness, the bipolar is just a side effect. Different groups are fighting each other believing that they are better than the other not realizing that they need the other in order to exist in the form the see themselves in.

When you start to unravel this you realize how mad the world is, but it’s not a world existing outside of you. Oneself is the very world! This realization has been the start of the liberation for me. Despite continuos anxiety I’m experiencing a serenity I’ve never believed existed. But it means that I constantly have to challenge my self-image and give up ideas I associate myself with. My blackness, gender, sexuality, being a café owner, writing this long blog post, being bipolar and etc etc. And the journey is terrifying because removing layers and layers of my identity leaves me with less things to cling on. I feel like a void, sometimes non-existent because there is no self to try to live up to. But there is an enormous freedom in just being.

The thing is, I am still all of my layers but at the same time not. And this has left me with a different loneliness. I can’t really share these thoughts with people, it feels so different from how I believe people live their lives. But what do I know? Maybe this is just my ego tricking me into believing that I’m better than others for being so deep and all that.

But then the other day something beautiful happened. Two girls from Brazil spontaneously visited the café. We ended up talking all evening and afterwards I thought, all this time I had felt lonely there had been two other souls on the other side of the world feeling the same. This makes me realize even more that I’m not lonely, that there are people in my surrounding, job, in the metro who feel the same. Maybe even you. But we don’t open up. We only talk to each others through our masks, occasionally it will fall of, but we are fast putting it on again.

So for me this blog will be an experiment in trying to be and live as truthful as my heart is telling me to. Welcome in to my thoughts and thank you for reading. X

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