My heart aches to much to forgive,
My eyes to swollen to forget,
It’s been years,
Seems like yesterday,
The pain so fresh,
The tears so near,
I can forgive but I will never forget.
I was diagnosed with bipolar in 1999 after psychosis and schizophrenia diagnosis. It has been hard because prior to receiving any diagnosis, I discovered that I was pregnant. So during much trial and error, my daughter has had to endure some instability. I only disclose my illness to those close to me, because of the intense stigma. Some people assume a high level of intelligence negates the possibility of someone having a mental illness. Not so. I have experienced the awkwardness of hearing the labels placed on the mentally ill. I am officially tired of it. So I don’t care who knows that I am bipolar, because I am still human.
I was born in 1958 in an era when society taught mothers that bottle-feeding was healthier than breastfeeding and that discipline to the point of corporal punishment was an important parenting skill.
The doctor had to pull me from my mother’s birth canal with forceps, which permanently dented the left side of my jaw. But other than moderate scoliosis, which my mother said came from her side of the family, I was a normal six and a half pound baby.
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