So, I turned 32 today. Does it even matter? I woke up, too depressed to get out of bed. I actually had to force myself to sit up. It was terrible. This is the first birthday that I have ever felt just completely alone in the universe, where I felt I have no purpose.
I have two amazing little sisters that did their best to make it special. It was nice. And for a moment I did feel important to someone. It’s a fleeting feeling, as it always is. I was far too zoned out. I know I didn’t show the appreciation that I should have.
It’s not their fault, obviously. It’s just so hard to feel anything other than despair at the moment. Just a week ago, my entire life seemingly walked out the door. Leaving me alone, and at the most vulnerable point in my life.
It’s one thing to think that you’re mentally ill, but an entirely different thing when you are told by a doctor you are. It adds so much anxiety to the entire thing. It becomes all you can think about.
What did I do before this? Was I not me for most of my life? Who am I? That last question becomes the hardest to answer. If it was hard to tell who you were to begin with, it’s even harder now.
How am I supposed to define myself? I don’t know who I am anymore. Am I just bipolar, or am I a guy that just happens to be bipolar? Who fucking knows anymore? Maybe I am just overthinking it all.
But, am I? My wife walked out one me because of what the illness causes. She couldn’t see the person beneath the disorder. Maybe no one will. Maybe I’m doomed. Maybe I will be alone for the rest of my life. But, even if not, will I ever get over the hurt that comes with being abandoned, with the loneliness of losing a wife?
I guess I won’t know for a very long time. Either way, it was the worst birthaday in a long time. My sisters added the only bright spot to speak of. I am at least very great full for that.