Feeling like a Burden with bipolar disorder

Living with bipolar disorder is hard on so many levels, but one thing that I find truly exhausting is the feeling of having to apologise for everything. Now before I dive into that let me preface this by saying my husband doesn’t make me feel this way and this is all an internal dialogue that I struggle with. This is all in my head and my husband is constantly telling me otherwise which must get exhausting for him so, I’m also sorry for that too. The never-ending cycle of bipolar disorder doesn’t just affect me but rather everyone around me too. The truth is feeling like a burden with bipolar disorder is just a normal feeling for me and maybe for many of you too.

Feeling like a burden with bipolar disorder.

I live with this constant feeling that I have something to be sorry for. Even in the cases where I’m literally just a person existing with an invisible illness and haven’t done a single thing wrong. I’m sorry. And, it’s not to be annoying, though I’m sure it must be for my husband, but he wouldn’t ever say that. It’s because I feel so deeply about the impact my bipolar disorder is having on everyone’s life and I can’t help but feel so hopelessly sorry.

For example, my husband won’t ever know what a stable wife is. (Being married with bipolar disorder, that’s just what happens.) One who is well, healthy and can function like a normal human being without requiring pill boxes as mascots. He won’t ever be able to do anything with me without thinking about my mental health, my triggers, whether or not I’ll have coping tools nearby or if I can do said things at all or if it would be wiser for me to skip it. It’s like I’m a child trapped in an adult sized body. And sometimes I feel and fear and he deserves that boss babe bitch energy and it’s just not me. I tend to be needy, dependent, and require help to figure things out or even just carry all my emotions. I am not boss babe energy. I’m more like a cute panda bear munching on bamboo who needs a hug type of energy. Feeling like a burden with bipolar disorder is just a common and normal feeling I carry all the time.

So, I apologise. Because I feel (and fear again) that I fall short of all that he deserves and should have. When I say sorry, I’m not just saying sorry for that one little inconvenience but rather sorry for the enormity and all consumingness of my bipolar disorder. (The shame that comes with bipolar disorder is unreal.)

I carry this shame that I’m not what I’m supposed to be for being a 36 year old mother and wife. Like I don’t act the way I should or think the way should. I struggle with wondering that that must be like being around me. Something as simple as walking into a store can trigger an anxiety attack and my husband quickly switches into a supportive partner rather than a curious shopper and for that I am sorry.

Or the days where the depression is so heavy I can’t move. I lay on the couch too weak and tired to even pull the blanket up over my eyes so I wait for him to do it. Because he will. He always will. He will always make sure that I am okay and if I’m not, he’ll do anything to try to change it. And I feel so sorry that I am like this and he has to do that for me. He won’t ever know a carefree whimsical life because drown in the taunts of my demons and he has to pull me out.

And it’s not like it’s just once. I didn’t just have a mental breakdown or something and I’ll feel better soon. No. It’s just an ongoing, neverending cycle. Because bipolar disorder is a ride that never ends. So I feel this sense of sorriness that I’m like this. That some days i can power through anything, the house cleaned and nearly sparkling, beds made, laundry done, and I still have energy but other days walking up the stairs to drink my morning coffee makes me feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Not just hit. Ran over. Destroyed. And expected to still be able to function and appear as if I’m a normal typical functioning human being.

I am constantly crushed under the weight of knowing that I can’t be better than this. Some days are wonderful, productive, busy and I feel accomplished and fantastic. But anyone who lives with bipolar disorder knows what’s always looming. Around every thrilling height is a new drop that drops you faster into the darkness than the last time. You’re plunged into complete nothingness. Everywhere is dark. You can’t see anything. And you’re there, alone, for what feels like forever. You’re isolated. Like as if you’re in a deep, deep well, too far down for anyone to ever hear you scream. No one can see you. No one can hear you. You’re just sort of there.

I drown in sorrow that I’m sharing my darkness with anyone. That my darkness sucks the brightness and joy out of things. That my kids won’t ever have a “normal” mom. Sometimes I’m up, sometimes I’m down, and if we’re really lucky… I can maintain my stride balancing in the middle. The delicate and dainty walk between the extremities. The pull between each side almost too much to bear.

I crumble to my knees knowing that instead of bringing joy and light to my husband’s world, it’s more like “can you pick up that new prescription next time you’re at the pharmacy?” or “this is too overstimulating for me.” Instead of spontananienty and thrill, I’m more like no surprises whatsoever to avoid any potential triggers and maybe be ahead of any mood shifts.