The cute version of bipolar

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Bipolar Hurricanes and Angels

Bipolar isn't cute. It isn't a room covered in paisley wallpaper. It isn’t tea parties on the freshly mowed lawn or pixies dancing through the moonlight. More to the point, it is your body chained to the radiator in someone else’s basement. It’s the spins after too much alcohol. The stares of mother’s as they hurry their kids along because you decided to shave your head at 4am the night before. However, it is also the best sex you’ve ever had, hands clutched to the headboard screaming out. The orgasms showering down on you over and over for a week like rain coming down. You are infinite. You are a magician, a shaman, a god, a beacon in the darkness. You are all of it. You are bipolar.
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I guess a blog is something that I am supposed to post on almost every day so I am going to give that a go, and since no one is following me on here I feel an inexpressible freedom to get down to the real shit of my experience with bipolar. The first question that comes to mind is how much I can say without getting reported and also how much I should divulge or not divulge to save some wankers asses. Hmmmm, we shall see what comes out and hope for the best. Let's maybe just start with the basics. I was diagnosed with chronic depression when I was in middle school and I tried what I would guess would be over 30 meds to try to help me with it, but nothing ever stuck. I always felt instinctively that there was more to the picture than just depression. As I got older I started doing more wacky things that I found out later fell into the mania category such as self medication, danger seeking, racing thoughts, insomnia, up all night literally pacing back and forth in my room un...
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