#1: welcome
Hello.
Here's a letter that is likely not what you'd expect.
For the past three or so months, I haven't wanted to write. So I haven't, not much anyway. I'm grateful for that time, and for now, where I have moments of wanting to challenge myself to put something, anything down. To remind myself that I don't have to say it all at once. That no one is expecting anything of me, other than myself.
I also haven't wanted to do much of anything at all. There was even a two week period where not a single thing sounded appealing, and when it got to the end of the day, I thought: ok, I did it. I did another day, and if I did another day, I can also do tomorrow...
Sometimes I did do tomorrow, other times I collapsed in a heap before it came around.
During any given week, you could find me bouncing between not-so-bad, really bad, and accomplishing everything I ever thought possible: to make and do and do and do and do, and then to make up for the time that I didn't do (which was likely the 6 hours I spent sleeping), until I would once again collapse. But before I would collapse, I would reach a point where things were unsafe. Where I felt out of control. Where I lost touch with what was ok, and what wasn't. Where I could no longer reach myself, and soon, logic and reality slipped from my fingers like a slick stone.
After the storm came through, I got back to cleaning up the mess. Promising myself that I would do more to make things better. That my mess was just because I wasn't organized enough. Wasn't skilled enough. Wasn't enough enough, generally speaking. How could nothing be working? How was I still coming up short?
I wonder what it is like for you to read this.
Maybe you're entirely confused to what is going on. If that's true, I understand, especially since I haven't told you what's going on, not really. And though I know I don't have to, I would like to. If only for myself (selfish, I know). And I wish I knew how this was going to make you feel, and I do worry that it will be "too much," but then again, none of this is up to me: maybe you'll hate it. Maybe you'll find it amusing, but lacking in spine. Maybe you'll love it, or maybe you'll pull something out of this letter that is only useful for you, and therefor only you could be the one to find it.
As it turns out, I am not in a rush to be brave. I am not looking to put the pieces back together again, and I am not looking at this mess as something that needs to be cleaned up, which is something I never thought I'd say. After all these years, I've only just come to realize, that these motives have only one goal in mind: to fix what was is wrong.
But what would happen if I decided to stop viewing myself as broken?
I feel the need to shift in my seat; the fantom itch on my neck is back, climbing up and down my spine like a thousand little spiders: if I have my recently-uncovered timeline right, right about now, I would usually be emerging from a deep depression, and ramping into the next big thing. Juggling was my superpower; the thrill of saying yes to everything around me gave me the fuel that I needed in order to keep going. So I kept going until I couldn't.
But right now is different; the timeline has been disrupted, and the itch, though still there, is just the result of an often overly enthusiastic imagination (with fear-filled experiences to back it up).
Right now I can breathe. I can sit quietly. I can notice the fluffed-up robins on the bare tree outside my office window. I can admire how incredibly blue the sky is. I can smell the rain coming. I can sleep long nights. I can smile and mean it. I can laugh and mean it. I can set aside my goals and partake in a luxurious 'day-reading-session' (as my grandma likes to call them).
I can exist without so much fear. Fear of the fall. Of the moment when all of a sudden, nothing is ok again.
Sometimes it does creep up (the fear). Sometimes I find it hard to trust myself. Trust that the feeling of being ok won't be pulled out from under me. But what I have now is a thousand and one things and people to remind me that it will be ok this time, and if it's not, we'll figure it out together.
I am trying a new medication this evening, one that will be added to the mix of others I am currently taking. I'm excited and hopeful as I find my footing in these shoes that I've been growing into for just over three months now. Bipolar is like that. It requires you to keep adjusting and shifting your weight until you've found solid ground, and when the ground starts to shift again (because it will), you'll take a giant exhale, adjust, and if needed, find yourself a new pair of shoes. Ones that actually fit.
Though I don't know if I'll be selling pottery anytime soon, I do know that I like being here. That I like making things with my hands, writing as frequently as I can, and sharing sometimes.
When I launched Chlobelleo, I was on a high. A high that would eventually reach a manic episode. That episode was what led me to a diagnosis. When I saw the diagnosis written down on paper, I started to fill in the blanks: I was suddenly 18-years-old again, and the giant question marks that stood in front of me were replaced with the answers that I had been grasping at for almost a decade. It all made sense. I hated that it made sense, but I also felt intense relief. Whatever was happening, it stung deeply. I didn't know how I would figure it out. I still don't know, not really.
But I do know that I wanted to write you something, and though the feeling of wanting to do it all isn't as loud or demanding as it once was, it's still there, and will likely always be there: somewhere in the background of my mind as I actively keep moving away from it (as it keeps moving closer).
So here we are with a letter. Just a letter.
Talk soon.
Love,
Chloe
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