I feel like an angst-ridden teenager right now, compelled to write poetry about the weather matching the shades of grey in my heart. Twinkle is healing, these feelings aren’t about that. These feelings are about bipolar and how that forsaken illness can strip the life out of my husband, and our marriage, without any warning. I hate mental illness, its lies and its ability to twist our reality into an ugly picture. Mostly I just hate today. And parts of yesterday. And how I am doing a terrible job at being supportive because all I want is for someone else to take the baton from my hands for a while because I need to rest. I want to sit, head between my knees and gasping, and fade into the background. I want to pretend that I don’t know what is right or wrong to say in these situations. I want to say the inappropriate things on my heart and in my head instead. I want to talk about feelings, but this time I want the feelings to be mine, however raw and vulgar and completely unbecoming of a wife and mother they may be. Basically, I want to be the opposite of me for a few hours, to feel the words that press on the backs of my teeth escape from my tongue, but then erase their effect. But words don’t work that way — If I can’t take them back I have to swallow them instead.
Sometimes I hate being a responsible user of the English language.