Why I Don't Hope

One thing, as I go through the world of bipolarity, I've tried to avoid is hope.

Hope. I don't like it. I don't want it. And I actively avoid it.

It seems ridiculous not to hope. How do you go through life without hope?

It's a matter of perspective. Most people look at hope as a positive. Sometime, somewhere things will get better. That's good.

I look at hope with skepticism bordering on paranoia. To me, hope is not hope. It's a danger sign.

This summer, I decided I was ready to go back to school. Counselling. My doctor and I worked it out and all seemed positive.

Throughout the summer, I became increasingly aware that I was feeling the mania building. I started feeling powerful and that I already knew everything there is to know and of course this is what I'm meant to do. And of course, I'm going to save people from living the same life I have. I don't even need these classes to know what to do.

Not too much to hope for.

It's way too much to hope for. It's not realistic and it's a fantasy.

The irony is that I felt what was happening, I knew at points. I wrote that I was thinking in super grandiose terms. I also knew it wouldn't last.

But it felt so great. That feeling that everything is small and I'm expansive, creative, visionary, and a healer. I am the conquerer. I'm on top.

It's so intoxicating that even though I was well aware, this mania lasted months in varying degrees. And I pushed it to last, to be honest.

I wanted the mania to be the new me. I thought this time I could avoid the cliff.

I let myself hope. Fell off the cliff and I crashed hard. I'm still crashing.

Hope is killed and it feels like hope is killing me.