On Being Bipolar

**Today’s post was contributed by Honorary Survivor Bunny, Heather Jacobs**


One will never reach the other. One sulks while the other takes excessive risks. One gives up hope while the other is angry. Somewhere between this impossible duo, is me. I am running. I am rushing to take messages from one to the other that everything will be ok, and, maybe there will be a happy reunion next spring.

My journey south begins with the swallows. They gather happily without overthinking telephony, and, seemingly without warning, they leave. The mad scientist/artist/overachieving nut sighs after waving a futile goodbye to me and slinks into the oversized chair until I return.

Sometimes I run. Sometimes I fly. Sometimes I teleport. I land with a thud each time. It seems landing is a skill for me yet to master. There are always a few choice words hurled in my direction for my clumsiness. There is never hot tea waiting for me. Never a light left on or a comfortable bed made up for a weary traveller. I am never welcome. It is confusing to me how these two crazy people seem so obsessed with each other and why I feel compelled to mediate between them.

After a few long evenings alone, a sadness of my own begins to engulf my heart. Hope is replaced with resentment and rage. I become somewhat jaded with my diet of worms. I confront the sulking one with a few smart words of my own and a fight ensues. Visitors to this farm are completely unaware of the undercurrents, the sabotage and hate between us. Now and then, a little of the truth shines through the cracks. These unsuspecting folk usually never return for a second experience.

Strangely enough, I will stay down here for longer than up north. It is safer. There are no expectations. I can rest. I’m not exhausted by the constant pressure and madness, the coiled adrenaline. I can escape the responsibilities and expectations I created.

As the swallows know they will fly again, I, too, am bound to a pattern of sorts. It is in my contract. At some point, my grumpy landlord will evict me with a kick that sends me into orbit and little more than, 

“good luck, p.s. please tell my other half I’ll never be this way again.”

The contemplative emptiness of floating above the whole world is somewhat inspiring. I will
burn a little on re-entry. All I ask is that I can swim out of the ice hole I will make for myself on landing. Unlike the last time. But this time I am unstoppable. I run to find my slumbering nutcase and share all the news. Every bit, down to the very last detail.

I have nowhere else to go, I suppose, but north. So, I go. I take the risk of being overwhelmed
once more. On arrival I am confronted by the expectations I left behind. The temptation to run is unbearable, but I am the mediator.


Adjusting so suddenly from one extreme to the other makes me resentful in a way. I was complacent, wondering if the nutcase remembered the lonely, grumpy one. On rejoining the madness, I am swept up and darted with that all too familiar substance. As the adrenaline kicks in, I become snappy, succumb to defence-mode, and everything is a threat. I am jumpy.

All I want to do is organise that ONE cup of tea between hyper-pants and hopeless-grumpy; I am convinced that on meeting, they will stabilise each other.

What I didn’t account for, in all this madness, are the keepers of potions. They control mind-bending substances that are contraband to all but a few. They have promised that if I work hard enough, my two polar dwellers will slowly leave their lonely lives behind to move just a little closer.

Although there is significantly less distance to cover now, and the polar days and nights are
less extreme, my landings, unfortunately, still need work.

Maybe a cup of tea will calm my fears.


On Being Bipolar
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