Someone had the audacity, upon hearing of my many failed relationships (failed not due to me, but do dating cheaters and liars), to say, "Maybe God is keeping you from getting married because He knows you're bipolar and doesn't want a girl to have to deal with that." His words--he shall remain unnamed, because I do not wish to slander; but let me just say that he is quite an ass (is that slander?)--were hurtful and searing. A direct assault on me as a person. I have many theories regarding why I have not been successful in relationships (such as, well, never mind--they're personal), and that used to be one of my theories. I fought it down and beat it to death (or so I thought), and his words, in a sense, resurrected that old perspective. I'm not buying into it, I'm once more fighting against it. Such a perspective had been hell, but even amidst my worst moments (and I know this guy pretty well), I have been twice the man he is.
It hurts because some people just hear that about me and make all kinds of wild assumptions. They don't know me at all, they have no repertoire with me, and thus what they say can just be tossed out. And generally, I don't give a damn what people think of me. But for some reason, this literally hurts. Maybe because it's an attack on me as a person--not on a specific trait of mine, but on me as a whole. Maybe it's because his words reflected an old perspective, and bringing it up is like driving a nail into the new perspective, a nail into the weakest spot, and the new perspective threatened to crumble.
The reality of the matter is that "bipolar" is now a word laced with popular thought derived from the entertainment industry, something affiliated with men who beat their wives and people who kill others on a whim, and at the least there is an image of white-walled hospitals with padded rooms. It's a badge I wear; just as the Jews with their Davidic star in Hitler's Europe wore a badge that conjured up all sorts of ridiculous, media-inspired, and flat-out wrong connotations, so I wear this badge, and those who meet me--and find out about this--will then be indebted with all sorts of ideas about me.
At least until they get to know me. On the basic, surface level I am funny and quirky and enjoyable and have a rich personality. On a deeper level, I am perceived as caring and compassionate, a loving person who makes sacrifices for others and puts other people before himself. And on an intimate level--the plane where two people truly know one another--I am wounded but loving, hopeless but hopeful, in sorrow yet joyful, suffering yet celebrating, in pain but enduring--not for the sake of myself but for the sake of others. I devote myself to others more than myself (and am often hurt by this), and I am a fighter: I may be brought to my knees, but I get up again; I may bleed, but I keep going; and even when the exhaustion is overbearing, I grit my teeth and push forward. The cycles have swept through the last four years of my life in varying and undulating currents, but the one I remember most was in the fall of 2006 (comparable to that of autumn 2007). For nine months I wanted nothing more than to take my own life, but I didn't. It wasn't because I had hope--because I had none--but because I knew how doing it would affect my family, especially my little sister. For nine months I wept and looked upon a dark world and felt nothing but an unquenchable emptiness and sorrow, and I would often go to the bridge and stand there for hours fighting the urge to jump. It was in those moments that who I am really shone through: despite how deeply and badly I wanted to do it, I refused, putting others before myself. And when people hear about this, they just think about me being bipolar. They don't see the nature of myself reflected amidst that.
The guy who spoke those hurtful words doesn't know me at all. He makes wild assumptions because of the badge I wear and then thrusts them onto his perception of me (and upon bipolar in general). I know several bipolar people, and I can attest that we do not fit the mold of society's stereotype: we are fun-loving people who care deeply for others, who feel the hurts of others; we are loving and suffering; we generally put others before ourselves; we are loved by many. But most people never see this, either because they don't really know us or they're afraid to get to know us. The reality is that we wear badges, and eventually the badge becomes visible.
It hurts because some people just hear that about me and make all kinds of wild assumptions. They don't know me at all, they have no repertoire with me, and thus what they say can just be tossed out. And generally, I don't give a damn what people think of me. But for some reason, this literally hurts. Maybe because it's an attack on me as a person--not on a specific trait of mine, but on me as a whole. Maybe it's because his words reflected an old perspective, and bringing it up is like driving a nail into the new perspective, a nail into the weakest spot, and the new perspective threatened to crumble.
The reality of the matter is that "bipolar" is now a word laced with popular thought derived from the entertainment industry, something affiliated with men who beat their wives and people who kill others on a whim, and at the least there is an image of white-walled hospitals with padded rooms. It's a badge I wear; just as the Jews with their Davidic star in Hitler's Europe wore a badge that conjured up all sorts of ridiculous, media-inspired, and flat-out wrong connotations, so I wear this badge, and those who meet me--and find out about this--will then be indebted with all sorts of ideas about me.
At least until they get to know me. On the basic, surface level I am funny and quirky and enjoyable and have a rich personality. On a deeper level, I am perceived as caring and compassionate, a loving person who makes sacrifices for others and puts other people before himself. And on an intimate level--the plane where two people truly know one another--I am wounded but loving, hopeless but hopeful, in sorrow yet joyful, suffering yet celebrating, in pain but enduring--not for the sake of myself but for the sake of others. I devote myself to others more than myself (and am often hurt by this), and I am a fighter: I may be brought to my knees, but I get up again; I may bleed, but I keep going; and even when the exhaustion is overbearing, I grit my teeth and push forward. The cycles have swept through the last four years of my life in varying and undulating currents, but the one I remember most was in the fall of 2006 (comparable to that of autumn 2007). For nine months I wanted nothing more than to take my own life, but I didn't. It wasn't because I had hope--because I had none--but because I knew how doing it would affect my family, especially my little sister. For nine months I wept and looked upon a dark world and felt nothing but an unquenchable emptiness and sorrow, and I would often go to the bridge and stand there for hours fighting the urge to jump. It was in those moments that who I am really shone through: despite how deeply and badly I wanted to do it, I refused, putting others before myself. And when people hear about this, they just think about me being bipolar. They don't see the nature of myself reflected amidst that.
The guy who spoke those hurtful words doesn't know me at all. He makes wild assumptions because of the badge I wear and then thrusts them onto his perception of me (and upon bipolar in general). I know several bipolar people, and I can attest that we do not fit the mold of society's stereotype: we are fun-loving people who care deeply for others, who feel the hurts of others; we are loving and suffering; we generally put others before ourselves; we are loved by many. But most people never see this, either because they don't really know us or they're afraid to get to know us. The reality is that we wear badges, and eventually the badge becomes visible.
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