I have taken to thinking of bipolar as a mountain I climb. I climb it everyday, all day. Everest has nothing on this mountain, let me tell you. I have climbed it everyday for years, and I will be climbing it everyday until I die. The mountain is an unending fight, where every movement must be checked. Any decision you make may send you tumbling down the mountain. You may even be unlucky enough that someone else’s decision causes you to fall down the mountain. The uncertainty that everything could fall apart at any moment is a burden unlike any other. You can never be happy, because you never believe any moment can stay the same. No matter how good right now is, the next step could be the one to send you falling down the mountain.
I have dedicated my life to this damned mountain. I have sacrificed school, work, relationships, sex, almost everything that a normal 27 year old would be doing with their life; I cast aside so I could focus on this mountain. The mountain was my muse. I thought perhaps I could cure myself, I thought I could find true enlightenment. The mountain is unending, but maybe I could find a place with a nice view and space to rest one day. Maybe even I could reach the top, if there is one. It must be immaculate up there.
And if I may say for myself, I have done pretty well thus far. I really was learning how to navigate bipolar mountain. There were slipups, there were falls. I always managed to hang on and keep on climbing upwards. I became a regular Edmund Hillary. But a month ago, a wind blew, and I fell to the bottom. The absolute bottom. And I am so tired. I climbed for so long. I have tried to reach up and pull myself back up onto the mountain. It was a long and far fall. And it hurt. And I just don’t know how to face having to climb my way back up again.
I try to remind myself that I know the way now. I learned ways to keep my footing, to keep my grip. I learned how to pace myself and not expect everything to be perfect. But bipolar doesn’t work that way. It is hard to keep those things in mind when you look up at the mountain and all that way you have to go. I climbed for 8 years and I never found that oasis, that cave where I could rest my head and be happy, even if for a short time. Should I have to climb another 8 years and find nothing, I will be 35. My youth will have been entirely swallowed up by this mountain.
I look up at the mountain, and it reminds me of the painting of Dorian Gray. I have spent so long on the mountain, trying to make myself beautiful and happy and live up to what I worked so hard on, but now I have fallen. And the mountain, which I thought would look easy and traversable after all the work I have put in, now looks impossible to climb again. I always thought that if I fell to the bottom, climbing back up would be so easy. But I have been at the bottom for a month now, staring up at that mountain, thinking to myself “there is no way I can get back up there again. This isn’t the same mountain as before.”
So the question now is do I keep climbing. I don’t want to give up, I don’t want to stop trying, but the prospect of getting back on my feet, and getting back on that mountain scares me. I’m not sure I will survive another fall. I see gusts of wind off in the distance. I know the mountain won’t be the same as before. But I do want to find that oasis on the mountain. There has to be a place. There must be.
“If I only could, I’d make a deal with God, And I’d get him to swap our places, Be running up that road, Be running up that hill, Be running up that building.“
Kate Bush, “Running Up That Hill”
If you are struggling with thoughts of self-harm or suicide, please do not hesitate to contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1–800–273-TALK (8255). This is a free, 24/7 confidential service that can provide people in suicidal crisis or emotional distress, or those around them, with support, information, and local resources. For more information, call or visit www.suicidepreventionhotline.org.