FUCK YOU! oh I mean me.

Sometimes you can’t tell who to cuss out.

Should I be having a screaming match with my bipolar ass or should I be yelling at the person who’s yelling at me?

Is it my fault they’re yelling at me?

Are they finding a genuine lack of belief in it being the bipolar?

Do I need more fucking meds?

Do I need more fucking therapy?

I love being told that I have had a certain amount of time to deal with a life long problem so everything should be peachy.


I have to constantly be aware of what I’m doing or what I’m fucking thinking 24/7. Then that stresses me out. Where does the stress fucking stop? Is there a noose I need to cut and if so where is the knife?

Is there even a knife to find?

Every god damn situation has a spring loaded trigger that’s fucking hidden in some obscure recess. Its probably a sneeze from a cat because cats are assholes.

Did you know that the simple act of not enough sleep in a bipolar person can be a nuclear bomb? It can send someone into a manic or hypomanic state.

I go hypomanic because I’m bipolar type 2.

This whole blog feels like I’m just bitch bitch bitching.


Yep not a fucking word.

God this is so loserly. I’m hypomanic and I’m scared.

I wish my problem wasn’t invisible. I wish I was better at removing the fog I live in sometimes.

Just when you think you’re doing well you find yourself wanting to drink or cut.

So I think the answer is fuck me.

I’m ruining things, again.

P.s. I don’t think I’ll ever tell anyone I love or know that this blog is mine. Not even my husband.

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