Making A Mess.

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Messes.

We make them. We clean them up. Hell, some of us are messes.

I have a point of utter frustration I do not understand. I would dearly love too, but cannot, despite my best efforts. I am not a coordinated person. I forget things, I pay bills late, sometimes I eat cereal for dinner, and I can cry in the middle of public during a panic attack. My anxiety and bipolar disorder are crosses I carry. Having said that, I take medicine religiously. I follow a routine. I do everything I am “supposed” to do to manage my mental health and it works the majority of the time. I never self medicated with pills, drugs, or alcohol. I never fell into the traps that many who suffer from mental illness fall into. I was never an addict or in a rehab program. As close as I got was a suicide attempt(s). The other close call was a severe eating disorder in my teen years very few in my life even know about. I felt the less space I occupied the more I was worth. The control was so addictive. Despite my shortcomings, I’m a fairly normal adult. I run a small business because I cannot manage a traditional office job, I have a lovely little home, a nice car, cute kid. Hell I even have a cute dog and cat. I did not get here easily, I bled and screamed my way and earned my damn life. No one did this for me. I have the battle scars to prove it. It took more willpower than any will ever know not to give into the whiskey calling my name, saying it will be better after just a few sips.

Now, I find myself at an impasse. I am so exhausted. Being in control for 28 years can do that. I will be alone again, without that support a partner provides. I do not believe I will find love anytime soon. And here’s why I am angry.

The human messes. The individuals whose lives are unraveled, with needles in their arms and tears on the face, fear in their eyes… I do not scream the loudest, but it does not mean I’m not making a sound, reaching out for support and friendship. Due to the fact that I have no addictions, little drama, and was lucky enough to have a slight reign on my illness, I am not deemed worthy of attention. I have given away more than very few can understand. Perhaps one day someone will hear my quiet cry, see the way I push my food around my plate, the faded scars on my arms and inner thighs, the red jagged scar where my most anguish comes from across my hips.

I am unaware of overdoses. I cannot educate you on violence. My life has been harsh, but I have lived and hope has guided me from the edge before I took the plunge on many occasions. My lack of understanding of the underground scene should not be a hinderance to acceptance of me.

Perhaps one day, the quiet woman with the blue eyes will get her happy ending or at least a beginning with which to try.

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