Story of A Lost Girl

On Losing Hope & Finding It Again

If I was average, my emotions might be more like a train track. They would gradually turn, and have the occasional sharp turn. For the most part, they would be orderly, peaceful, and calm. Alas, I am far from average. As a severely bipolar teenager empath, my emotions are like going on a roller coaster. They change course suddenly and quickly. Often, I find myself drowning in my own tears, giggling to myself, and then suffocating under mountains of pure rage (all in a span of 5 minutes).

I often feel like Atlas - like I'm being punished by someone from above that has put the weight of the world on my shoulders. My disorders, my past, my hopelessness, and my future are some of the weights on my shoulders. The worst of the weights on my shoulders... is harder for others to comprehend. That would be my fears and my hope.

Fear is a snake coiling around my body. It is suffocating me. In my sleep, in slithers into my dreams... I always wake up in a panic. It silently stalks me while I'm awake - making me jumpy and strange because I... I am alone, but I feel the snake's eyes on me. Fear is a snake waiting for the perfect moment to strike... to kill.

You might wonder what this fear is. The worst of my life is over... and I know that... but better circumstances doesn't mean I'm better.

One manic episode in front of anyone outside of my family... and I will lose everything.

That's all it takes to ruin my life... permanently. I am 18 years old, and I am burdened with the knowledge that one slip up is all it takes to destroy everything I have. Schools will kick me out, the possibility of getting a job becomes slim to none, and I would have to go to the adult mental health hospital. Plus, in the US, mania - a state in which the individual can lose all rational thought/mindfulness - is not an excuse for any action unless the individual is in a constant state of mania. Meaning, if I get manic even once - now that I'm old enough - I could wind up in jail for anything I do (even if someone screws with my medicine, purposely riles me up, or if I had a perfectly reasonable explanation). I would not have any recollection of the events, and this would cause me to be unable to argue against my sentence.... if I was even alive.... mental health patients are 16 times more likely to be killed by a police officer than the average citizen. One manic episode, and many people I care about might become scared of me or even disgusted.

Sometimes, I wonder if it's even worth it. If I'm this stressed at 18... if life sucks now... surely it will only get worse. I have had many of these moments. Some which I won the battle, and walked away proudly with no physical scars... and others slumped and disheveled with bandages on my arm... and, worst case scenario, I wake up in a hospital.

Here's a little secret though... Fear is a mighty thing, but Hope is three times stronger.

My hope is my best friend's excited tone talking too fast to be understood, while my other best friend rolls their eyes, makes a witty remark, and goes back to their book. My hope is my dog running to greet me at the door. My hope is my cat purring on my chest. My hope is my Figure Skating coach's praises and her kind corrections. My hope is my younger brother's smile, my 7 year old cousin's laugh, my dad's jokes...my hope is my dreams... my wants... my needs... my friends... my family...

Hope sweeps in at the last second. It causes me to tell my parents so they can get me to that hospital. It causes me to stand tall. It causes me to bandage my battle wounds, and walk out of the war alive... because that's what this is. It's a war between me and my own mind. My bipolar raids my castle of sanity, but I am fighting back. I will win some, lose some, but in the end... I'm alive. That's how I know I've won my war.

What's your hope?