I haven’t deciphered if it comes from my weary of content or my craft. I am of the mind it is of that damned recognition as a writer. Where does the weary come from? Am I good enough has been the thread of my days. Will I believe it when my husband says it, when my mother in law does, when a handful of friends do? What if I become an award winning, best selling author? Will it be different then? My husband once said to me,”you will only believe it when someone says your work is shit.” And that is holy gospel, it is the truth. Why is it so hard to receive support? Why is it that the shitty comments are what i shove into the gaping void?

 I struggle with the guilt and shame for being an invalid in my episodes, I struggle with the notion of weighing everyone around me down with my troubles, I struggle with finding the right words to say although it has been practiced and practiced over the many episodes I have been in the years past. Reaching out seems a simple enough concept, though it proves to be gut wrenching and humiliating every time I feel the need to.

The pitter patter of the raindrops, so rhythmic to my soul, it gives a kind of deep comfort that can only be gotten from it, the beautiful droplets that would plop onto the glass window then slide down with so much grace.

I was having anxiety over my anxiety. This fucken Barracuda rears its head more often than I care to consider, yet it is the center of my world. Worrying about when bipolar will hit in any which direction was a constant, consistent, persistent obsession and fear of mine.

Perhaps it is overcompensation, perhaps it is because of the love that comes of it, but most of all, it is because I feel home. The bipolar disorder and all the mood swings are made worth every bit of it. Every year I fight through them to hold on to all that I am gifted.

I had a friendship with this 70 year old woman that welcomed me genuinely into her space, unwittingly as I was going through such hardship of health and isolation and pain and grief. She blessed me with her love as simply as she handed me a glass of water as she storied in her home.