The Bipolar Path

Yesterday started with surrender.

I sat in my therapist’s office and left with a pill I’d worked hard to stay off. I’d been without it for months. It makes me tired. Taking it again felt like handing over a piece of my autonomy. Not a collapse—just… surrender.

Then I talked to my ex.

From that moment, my whole system started racing. We made plans to meet, and suddenly nothing else mattered. All I wanted was to see him. My mind quieted, my body accelerated. I waited for hours.

When I got to him, it felt incredible.
We went grocery shopping. He took care of everything—I was just floating outside my usual zone. That made me feel powerful in a strange way, like I was allowed to let go. But he also picked on me. Told me to be more feminine. Criticized how I organized things in the kitchen.

So I stayed quiet.
Part of me came alive—when we had sex, when he told me what to do, when I surrendered control. But another part of me stayed hidden. The part that wants softness without judgment. The part that doesn’t want to be sculpted into something “better.”

He doesn’t always see me.
He sees a version of me that I feel I have to maintain. Sometimes that’s exhausting.
But when I zoom out, I still feel comfort. He handles things. That’s who he is. Sometimes it feels like home. That’s what makes it all so confusing.

What I wanted—more than anything—was to be chosen again.
But I didn’t say that. I didn’t say “I need you.” I couldn’t.
I was afraid of being rejected. Afraid of needing at all.

But yesterday confirmed something I’ve always known but can’t always admit:
He still loves me.

And this is what I wish people would understand about living with bipolar:
Everything feels extreme. The joy. The ache. The hunger. The silence.
It’s all turned up—sometimes unbearably so.
But it’s also honest.

If I had to name the day: hopeful and wishful.
If I had to sum it up in one line:
Nothing breaks like a heart.

But even when it’s breaking, I’m still here.
Still choosing. Still feeling. Still mine.