For some reason, I always used to say this to myself when I would cry. Through college, through the awful transition into real life, through everything. I’d lay on my mattress, hold myself tight, and repeat the same phrase, “I want to go home.”
Only eventually, home wasn’t any longer a place where I wanted to be.
I held onto the phrase, and now I feel it come back to me again, only I don’t know what or where is home. Sometimes I think the psych ward is home. Sometimes I think under the covers on my own bed is home. Sometimes I think home doesn’t exist at all.
If there was a home, it would be a place where this bipolar madness wouldn’t get at me. Where I’d be safe from its ups and downs, its tug and pull, its POS grip on me.
Sometimes I’m manic. Sometimes I’m depressed. But never am I home.