I wish I could say I meander between two poles, that I smoothly shift, in total control, between each pole whenever I want, however I want. I can’t say that though, because I am bipolar. I’ve been called many things by doctors, internists, psychiatrists, and I really buck labels, but I have seen that I do pretty closely resemble the expression of bipolarity that the symptoms sheets put forth.
Oh God, let me meander. I’m tired of dramatic flights. I’m tired of confusing fights. I’m tired of words like abrupt, instant, surprise, extreme and shift. Let me meander the way I imagine others meandering. Let me stop and smell the flowers. Let me embrace quiet times. Let me know relaxation. Let me keep what I’ve learned throughout all this fear-inciting struggle with mania and depression, but let me begin a new journey, a journey of meandering, a journey of walks through the park and with the park instead of walks through the park and above the park.
To meander seems a nice goal to have, a goal worthy of the struggle. I desire a smooth, winding course and now the direct, impatient course.