It’s hard to describe what I feel every day because inconstancy chases me. I say that bipolar disorder doesn’t define me, but my therapist collides saying ”but it’s part of your life.”
I found myself again two years ago. I came back to my hometown, my parents’ house. I could hug my little brother everyday and go to the psychiatrist twice a week. I also found some of my old canvases from high school, under the bed with a lot of dust. Those canvases were, at some point in my life, describing how I felt. I found old medicines, broken pen, old letters that have always made me smile. Everything that I was looking for a long time without knowing I wanted to find.
After coming back, I understood what was necessary to survive. I accepted that death hasn’t chosen me yet, and that the love of my life had to be far from me, so he could survive as well. Once I recognized myself in the mirror and let myself cry, I gave meaning to my life again.
I knew how to say goodbye to the pain, and how to give a warm hug in the happiness. I knew how to be grateful to still be alive, after a long time thinking I wasn’t.
Today I smile, saying I’ve been to my worst phases and the best are still to come. To feel my heart pounding in the rhythm this city asks me to, because now, this is my home.
If you enjoyed this piece, be sure to check out Depression As An Extrovert