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So Tumblr is where you go to post personal things that you would never talk about in person right? This is as personal as I can get. I sort of think I’m part brave but mostly foolish for putting this up. I wrote it yesterday, and thought about it all day whether to share it or not. But here goes. 

Bipolar. A word I had always joked about having. It had crossed my mind last year, but I quickly pushed the thought aside. But lately, I’ve wondered if it could actually be true. I had been reading about it for a while now, analyzing every symptom, every sign, every explanation. What was I looking for? I was searching for one - just one - symptom that wouldn’t apply to me. I was scared. And I believed that if maybe I found one that didn’t apply, that I can tell myself that I am perfectly fine. But every single one applied to me. What if I was? How will my life change when I have something to put under the “do you take any medications” question?  How will people think of me? What will my parents think of me? How bad of a disability will it be? Will I be alone? How did I get here? Did something snap at some point? Was I always like this? What triggered it? 

I know it’s not life threatening but that doesn’t make it any less scary. I barely understand it myself, and I doubt anyone else will too. What happens when everyone else just thinks I’m mentally unstable because of the stigma that goes with it? Of course I’m aware that I could just be blowing things out of proportion and that it could merely be just mood swings, but at this point, since it has crossed my mind, I know I have to find out.

Yesterday, I had the courage to talk to my dad about it. Throughout the whole process, my dad sat quietly, listening to me intently. Never uttering a word. He just listened while I talked about everything that’s been going on, my thoughts, my fears, my days where I’m up and indestructible, my days where I had no disregard for any consequences, and my days where I’m down and don’t care about anything or anyone at all. I talked to him about days where I would get three hours of sleep and have energy to run laps, and I told him about my days where I couldn’t even get out of bed. I told him I had wanted to see a psychiatrist, if only to find out if my mind is breaking. If my mind was starting to fail. When I was finished, he told me he wanted to read about it. He then spent the next hour reading everything he could find about bipolar disorder. 

After what felt like an eternity waiting for him to finish, he turned to me, with the same stern face I had always known.

“So you’re kind of insane?”

My heart dropped. Of all the people whose opinion of me I deeply cared for, his would be the one that would break me. I clenched my fist, as if to distract myself from the pain and hurt that was starting to form in my throat. 

“You know Vincent?” he began. “I can’t remember his last name.”

I was unsure, but I nodded anyway. “Everyone thought he was crazy. Until he died. Then everyone started to appreciate him. And then he became a part of culture. And then people wished they gave him a chance.” I was still clenching my fist.

“But you know what I think? I think the individuals that society label as insane are the ones whose intelligence no one could ever understand nor compare to. Their level of thinking was up on another level. And all they were doing, were seeking answers that no one was able to answer for them. Maybe no one ever really understood the questions they asked. So then they got frustrated.”

I was still numb. 

“And I think you’re frustrated. I think you’re just looking for answers kinda like they were. But that was always you. Even when you were a child, you were always asking questions. Always. And now that you’re a grown up and you see the world differently, you’re asking a question that no one understands nor comprehend. And no one has the answer. Most people are like me, I call us fishermen. All we do, day in and day out, is go fishing, and that’s our only passion, that’s the only thing we know what to do, so that’s all we do. Then there’s people like you. The rare, and special kind. The ones who are always out and about, trying to find answers and explanations to everything.”

I felt my fist relax. I was taken back to my days when I would ask my dad questions about life, death, and everything in between, and how I would cry to him because I felt it was unfair that people died, and that people go through pain, and that other people cry even when it wasn’t their fault. My dad always had answers. I didn’t like them most of the time. But he had them. And that was enough for me. 

“I’m not like you”, he continued. “Someone whose intelligence and curiosity is something that not many people can ever catch up to.”

“And I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry that I can’t provide all the answers for you, even though as your dad, I’m supposed to be able to.”

I became that child again. He has never complimented me. Never acknowledged anything I have done. The closest thing he’s ever done was criticize me. Other than that? Nothing. I grew up having to learn to pat myself in the back, grew up learning to encourage myself, and be independent. But when my dad was sitting across me, telling me those things, and seeing how sincere he was, it was something. And I didn’t know how to react. So I just sat there. Like my six year old self when I got scolded, refining my skills in the art of putting on a pokerface. 

Maybe he was just saying it to make me feel better. But I’ll take it. Because even if he said those things only cause he was supposed to, it was still special for me. 

“You should see one, if you feel you need to. Maybe they can give some sort of answer that you’re looking for. And I will be here to support you. Always.”

He smiled at me. “You’ll be okay. I’m here.”

This is only the first step. Tomorrow has never looked so uncertain. But it’s a little less scary knowing that my dad is right behind me.