I have such a distinct hatred for being vulnerable, he’s the exception though, I yearn for him- all of you – your sweet scent, your warmth and your closeness. My head is a catastrophic mess currently with so many erratic thoughts ricocheting around the deepest of my insides with such a heated intensity that words escape me.
I find it most ironic I would like to classify it as irony, but the honest truth is this – it disgusts me with such a raw passion. After you have been that intimate and shared everything, not only refined to the physicality you shared with them but all your thoughts, fears and dreams. When you relinquished and recoiled from me it felt abstract and uncertain – to not be around them.
The most satisfying thing he gave to me was his trust and in an ultimate sense himself, for he did not care about the scars and cuts that littered my arm, it just contributed to what it meant, to what being close and accepted to him meant.
Living with Bipolar is excruciatingly painful, but its crucial to remember that you are not your illness. Although at times it can feel utterly consuming, as though you are isolated and imprisoned within your own mind your not what the voices dictate you to be. life is a series of choices we consecutively make that cause a chain of consequential reactions, I am not saying we are our choices because I don’t feel that’s fair. Its human error and inevitable to have moments were reason is abolished by irrationality, but happiness is an abstract noun – a concept and emotion not a state of mind, the more people accept that its okay to not be walking around ecstatic perhaps the more truthful their happiness would be.
“Happiness is the small things” there is defiantly a partial truth within this theory, for me happiness is more subconscious; for example, when your stomach hurts so intensely because you’ve been laughing so much with a close friend or reading a bed time story to your nephew and realizing how lucky you actually are. Yes I have bipolar, yes its shit and I spend a disproportionate time contemplating launching myself in front of a train or walking across A line roofs with my eyes closed but that’s only a part of me and im beginning to accept that, although its going to take a lot more time, I feel im finally getting there, and that’s a start for I may not be there yet, but I am closer than I was yesterday.
He never wrote me poems. We would fuck in his car, or on his bed where numerous other girls had been or while I was crying (classy I know). We saw each other naked so frequently I have the image engraved on the back of my eye lids and in my retina, present every time I close my eyes. He ripped my underwear off holding me down while I would caress his chest. I was always vulnerable, but there’s something about loving a broken boy, the concept of fixing him, I diddnt get to fix him of course; I just cut myself on the shards of his broken disposition.
I would wake him with kisses, whereas he woke me up with hickies, for a long time, I thought they were the same thing. Then I learnt that kisses aren’t promises, and hand holding is not a contract, we should build our bridges on today because its the only foundation that is certain.
I will always remember him though, how predictable he was within his unpredictability; I asked him one while we both got high, why it was that I could write novels about him until the words got tired of being anagrams of his name – but at the same time he would never reciprocate. He blew a smoke ring and broke it with his finger. “dunno” he said. We would inevitably fuck again later, because I was drawn to his self destruction, like a moth to a flame, I would crave and yearn for his pain.
I found him the other day sitting on my floor, staring at a picture from when I was young. “God” he said, “I really fucked you up”. And thats the moment I released we really do only accept the love we think we deserve.