"Can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that-I love life. But its is hard, and I have so much-so very much to learn." ~Sylvia Plath
"I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat stubbornly hanging on to my name and address." Its going on 2a.m. and sleep is eluding me. I worked well today. Turned in a chapter. That's an accomplishment. I should feel elated. But I don't. I'm just tired. Tomorrow I will concoct my essay for a bipolar fellowship. In it I will sound strong. Self assured. Unafraid. I will sit down in a coffee shop and pull out my laptop. I will pretend that I am completely normal. That I'm not scared of the future. Not worried about my shortcomings. Not a thirty-year-old cargo boat stubbornly hanging onto my name and address. Thirty is not that old you say? Well, never underestimate the power of going nearly a decade as an undiagnosed bipolar patient. Not to mention all those other skeletons I keep hidden in my closet. There's no room for my coats. I am exhausted. Sometimes, like tonight, I'm sick of fighting. Tired of all those pill bottles. So tired of never feeling save. Sick of my molten face. Like Plath, I love too much or not at all. She ended up with her head in an oven, and I wonder what the rest of my days will look like. Can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that-I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much-so very much to learn.