Bipolar Life- The Journal #74- “Suicide Cries”

This is about to get real..

My life since fifth grade has been a shadow of life and death fighting one another. Breathing has never dictated living for me. Breathing was a prolonged attempt at keeping a heart beating when the mind and spirit were done. It was the mechanism that those around me described as strength. In the weakness of living death, we discover the peace that no one knows.

There, in the quiet, my silence rings with truth, honesty, despair, and transparency to God.

I cry, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Whispering back in the hollows of the breeze, He says,

“I know.” That’s it.

God could come in and save the day, but our relationship does not work that way, it never has. With every battle life threw me in, I fought hard to survive. As a young child, my only weapon was a mental escape. I would disappear and hide among the sweetest of dreams. I left my torture chamber in every way except physically. For those solo trips, I remain grateful.

By day, I learned to simulate happiness and joy. A characteristic I seem to carry today. When night falls, and I sit alone, I find the real me.

I am not always depressed, but I have abandoned myself. The bitter years have left a sour taste behind. My desire to be gone far outweighs the desire to stay. It is greater than ‘take this world and give me Jesus.’

Searching for more.

My spirit cries out for a life I won’t find here. Like my child self, I am physically here but departed internally. There is no voice where I reside, no leading, no gathering. I kneel alone where all is white and good, and pure.

Everything screams, “you don’t belong here,”

followed by,

“Welcome home.”

I ask God to take me away. The response is silent and painful. He won’t answer that request until the perfect time. However, I never stop asking. Tomorrow may be His plan.

Is suicide selfish? Well yes, to everyone but the warrior who finally had enough.

Is suicide a last resort? It must be, I am still here.

Is suicide confusing, yes, and you may never understand.

I am no sissy. I have put up a good fight against evil. I am tired.

Is suicide a sin? For me, yes. Taking my life is taking ‘a’ life. Hence, my continual prayer to God.

I will not pretty it up, excuse it, or condone it. Yes, mental illness affects my brain in unimaginable ways. Every day is a fight to forge on, keep going, win. Wrestling my thoughts, I am left weary and exhausted. Going from deep depression to lifted mania is frightening and leaves me void of my humanity. I terrorize myself in the transitions and mood swings of bipolar.

The release of letting go of a world that doesn’t want me in it ‘peacefully’ is a replenishment to my soul. Evil and I have something in common; we want me gone.

“Take this life, Lord. Let me come home. Stop this heart. Free this mind. Let my soul fly.”

I just don’t want to keep doing life. It has left me disappointed and lonely. Where something beautiful should be, lies a vacant space only filled with the waste of pain. Years of abuse scavenged every last bit of light—a broken mind from a broken heart.

Living when you want to go.

Alas, I wait. Today was not my day. Till then, you can find me working to repair the damage done. One day, I could break this chain around my neck and change the narrative of my life. There could come a time I desire to breathe and live at the same time. Is this hope? I suppose it looks similar.

We cry alone when we reach this point, or not at all. Tears left me long ago. I taught myself the art of portrayal; you will not recognize a broken soul hidden behind complacent content. What you see is something created and dolled up for a good performance.

I believe this masquerade. If someone out there isn’t buying it and knows my truth, they’ve not said a word or reached out.

Which brings us back to the beginning and a bouncy, happy little abused girl. Many knew and never told a soul, never asked me, reported a thing, and still befriend the man of my nightmares. The cycle continues, not because I choose it, but because many choose not to see or remain silent.

This is the downfall of my life.

If we all pretend like life is great, it must be, right? What we don’t discuss will never be. Smile big enough, and long enough, it becomes its own believable story.

The end. Though not the end.


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