if you look up the definition of “bipolar” in the dictionary, you’d find my mom’s name screaming loud and proud in big fat letters.
you can say you’re bipolar all you want,
think it’s a cute ******* self diagnosed disease you can use to explain your mood swings,
but you will never understand how terrifying it is.
when from one moment you can hold your mom’s hand and watch movies with her,
the next she’s screaming that she’s going to **** herself, a knife turning her knuckles white.
bipolar disorder isn’t a rom com where the sick gets better in a nice little mental hospital,
it’s a horror film filled with blood spatter scenes and a not so happy ending.
but the scariest part of it is that when you check the definition again,
you’ll slowly start to see my name appear.

you tell everyone you are fine.
you are taking your meds.
you are smiling and laughing
you are agreeing to *** because sometimes it’s painful and you can’t hurt yourself anymore.
you are saying “have a wonderful day” with a smile while you work.
but the nighttime hits,
and you’re in bed numb.
maybe you decide to take an extra sleeping pill to knock you out,
but instead it just makes you high,
and you’re okay with that.
you try to tell someone that you are not okay.
they don’t seem to care. they don’t want to help.
your dog ends up coming into your room,
and you use her fur as a tissue to soak up all the tears that fall.
you whisper between sobs,
“i am not enough”
“i am not enough for him”
“i am nothing”
“i don’t want to be here”
“i don’t want to be here”
“i don’t want to be here”
she just puts her head down and doesn’t seem to care either.
you have nothing.
you have nobody.
would another cut really matter?
would killing yourself really matter?
you’ll put that smile back on your face the next day.

running around the basement of a house i’ve never been,
i don’t think i’ve ever felt so content.
high on strong ****,
buzzed on ****** beer,
the bump of cymbalta taking its effect on my brain.
happiness is surging through my veins,
and everything seems all right.
underage ******* clinging onto the person i love more than anything,
so i lock my lips with his,
a giant “*******” to each girl who wants more than to hear his music.
60 mg of happy drugs running through my system,
i’ve never felt more content.
my best friends at my side,
the love of my life singing his heart out on a makeshift stage,
and everything seems to be okay.

sometimes i still think that i will end up killing myself.
maybe that’s not a bad thing,
maybe these deadly thoughts filling my mind in the middle of the night is just fate telling me it’s the way i need to go.
maybe it’s how i balance out the universe.
i’ll run my finger along the bright blue veins on my wrist,
calluses getting caught on what seems like a million scars,
and maybe i’ll start to pretend that i opened up my skin again.
maybe a smile will creep up into my face when i think about what songs would play at my funeral,
an eerie message whispering to me that i do not belong here.
maybe the universe should be telling me to keep loving him,
to plan our wedding,
to plan our future,
and wedding bells do sing in the back of my mind,
but the idea that he’s not happy anymore sings louder.
the idea that i should give up before my heart gets torn out of my chest screams so loudly i feel like i’m going deaf.
maybe drowning a bottle of pills,
or wrapping my Malibu around a tree
is still written at the top of my Christmas wish list,
and i still wonder if these thoughts are fate’s way of telling me i do not belong here.

overthinking, overwhelmed, under appreciated

if you love someone you’re supposed to notice them
telling her that she’s beautiful more often doesn’t lose its meaning,
the lack of telling her, makes her feel meaningless
saying that you will feel like it will sound forced makes me feel meaningless
if you think it all the time, why the **** would it lose its meaning?
i am not beautiful
i am not enough
and i will never be enough
‘cause you pay more attention to them,
when i’m in bed crying myself to sleep over and over and over and over again
you’ll drop everything for someone you’ve only known for a month when they’re not okay,
but you won’t bother to drop everything for me
you’re supposed to be there for me
you’re supposed to help me
you’re supposed to ******* be there

i can’t find the strength to fight for people to stay

because of you, i think about the future as happening in my lifetime. because of you, i’m okay with tomorrow coming.
kissing you is the same feeling as the adrenaline that runs through your body while you’re in  a concert crowd.
when you touch me, my life flashes before my eyes but it’s not my funeral anymore.
i think loving you turned me into someone i never thought i’d be but i want her to stay.
anxiety attacks used to be my most toxic friend, but you scare them off when they try to invade me now.
i used to be scared of butterflies, but swarms of them lift me off my feet when you take my hand and i’ve never felt less afraid.

love is holding hands in the grocery store,
love is good morning/good night kisses,
love is looking for them in a crowd because they’re the only face you need to see.

love is walking closer to the street because growing up she was taught to be scared of the road.
love is him putting up with chewed straws on large Cokes,
love is hands in hair or heads on chests while tucked in bed on a chilly night.

love is a mind full of them, them, them, an unstoppable thought.

love is all of these things but love also isn’t.
love isn’t always perfect and gentle.

love is questioning your future together when a slip up happens,
love is being there for her when the demons in her mind start to rile up again,
and love is holding her as she recovers for the last time.

love is wondering if it will even be the last time.

love is fighting for a future together that has faded.
but love is being so madly in love that fighting for it is barely a war.

love is the up,
love is the downs.

love is going to sleep at night with a smile on your face because their desire for each other knocks out all the downs.