This is an impromptu post completely different to the one I had scheduled, but it seems right because it’s about bipolar (Tuesday posts are on this theme) and so I’m going for it.
I had a bit of a rough night last night. I’ve been talking to friends, being negative and generally wallowing. Don’t mistake me, I’m not Depressed, I think I’m just getting that Autumnal second wind, where you want to milk the very best out of the hazelnut season – to justify the year having been intensely lived, and sprinkled with cinnamon – a social spice.
I find myself having the long, philosophically revolving nights of the ponderous singleton.
Somewhere between friends telling me it will be alright, that your mid-twenties suck, that you do know who you are, and what you have to offer by now and my family members cloyingly forwarding matrimonial services that outsource your search to an inauthentic, robotic selection process…. I think a lot.
I’m not suffering a dark night of the soul. It’s just your average night of wishing to know the tenderness of being a woman with a man: and suffering nothing to be between you, other than an abiding affection and appreciation.
So I escape. I escape to that floe of ice on which I am an Inuit princess, exiled to an igloo with my two personified pet polar bears, Mania and Depression. Most days, these tender predators are in perfect harmony, touching noses and feeling compassion for each other. Then I leave them be, or I can stroke them and go fishing. Other days I sing to Depression and fondle his ears, and I have to subdue Mania with spears.
I sometimes think of a dashing explorer also occupying this floe, but the polar bears are a part of me, and their instinctive delusions cocoon me, in both insanity and a dream-like protection from real life – from time to time. They’ll fight.
Will they take to him? Will he take to them, more importantly?
I’m dreaming of love in a cold climate, but I’m afraid I’ll forget how.
The cognitive shift I need to make however is to align love, with life – not with chronic illness.
After all, despite appearances, igloos are warm on the inside.
~ Pola ~