I have bipolar type 2. Type 2s experience hypomania, rather than full blowm mania. The hypomanic phases provide temporary reprieve from the crushing depressive phases. Like an elevator that stops momentarily and unexpectedly on its way down to the dark basement. Living with bipolar disorder essentially feels like the psychiatric equivalent of driving a car with a seriously fucked carburetor ~ think, combustion regulation: impaired ... then, zero. Or, imagine driving with a sticky clutch.
The depressive phases unfold slowly, erosively, insidiously. Silent destruction. I have felt such unrelenting anguish that sends me contemplating my own demise as a final escape. At times no one around me knew, or could even imagine my suffering. Anyone who's endured depression will tell you it's a room in hell with only your name on the door. Meaning solitary suffering, the kind of suffering that simply one simply cannot share. The kind of suffering that many cannot see, from the outside, that prompts them to say things like, just snap out if it! {If only I could.} Imagine waking up feeling afraid that you will live.
Welcome ... to my inner realm.
