If I were before the judgement seat of God, this is what I would say:

"The conception of my kid,
at the time that it did,
was not intended,
but I'm glad that it did."

A force has awoken me today, and I feel again.
In a drunken stupor, I pour my heart out,
expecting it to be devoured again.

And yet I commit,
the only thing I have to give,
time and time again.

What this brings to me I may never know,
but I expect it to take me and my mind to a lower place,
the voice beckons from behind the screen,
because it means so much to me.

I forsake all that I know,
in the hopes that the fire within me rings true,
to be trodden in the future I never knew,
the voice speaks from behind the screen.

The day's conclusion is never done,
even when sleep takes me on the morrow,
forever it beckons to me untrue,
why I should listen, I never knew.

Friends of old comfort me,
saying, "your voice is heard,"
but after the lights dim and the noise shuts out,
my own mind yells at me "get out."

This rhyme I speak is never meant to be,
a rhyme proper, but we'll see.
Yet it is my voice I speak this day true,
never to be found again, until this day is through.

Epilepsy. Bipolar.

The words that we speak.

Shear words into our hearts, unfolding before our eyes. Both engrain a fear of desperation that speaks louder than words.

It isn't so bad when you understand them. Almost one and the same, unpredictable in their paths.

One has it, the other doesn't. The path that we both share, both unrequited. Like love. Still, like love.

We share.

Uncontrollable actions bloom forth from seizure to mood episode, blossoming forth an understanding that surpasses understanding to those to don't experience it.

And all that is needed is love. And understanding.

We share in that we both yearn for a world that understands our actions, never to be trusted from within. The pain. The uncertainty.

Are the same to those from the outside. "Oh, she has seizures." "Oh, he's depressed." The words we hear. "You're unreliable." "You're too much for me to handle."

The shame.

We deal with that which we cannot speak, yet we understand beyond words that comprehend. The path laden before us untrodden yet familiar. We push forward because we must.

And we'll do so again.

Together we'll conquer both or be consumed, unyielding to the torrent from within. Because we must.

We must.

Push forward.

That is the only way.

We are what we are not.