The kittens are leaving in a week, but that's not what this post is about.

The thing about being crazy is that I'm so normal most of the time.  My doctors are usually stumped, my demeanor is often one of gracious openness explaining about my illness.  But it's a demeanor that fails to find a connection to my reality.  I've never been able to properly explain my life in such a way as to convey what I truly experience day to day.  Everything's in the past tense, my understanding of time is no longer a fixed experience, it's been altered and I know I'm lying about details, I can't help but add them in.  This distraction, knowing that what I am saying is only partly true even if it's only a crime of omission, prevents me from being true to my self.

I should never have to leave a psychiatrist's office in embarrassment or with any sense of shame.  But they are the ones who are the toughest to tell the truth to, so eager am I to come across as "normal", just like I have trained myself to do every day.  It's hard to let down that guard and be honest about the internal struggles I face every day.  Most people "get over" it, they grow up, they don't need a mask.  At least that's what I tell myself in my darkest moments.  Those are unfair accusations to make, as I can't possibly understand fully anyone else's struggles, either.  Maybe their trials were better suited to them.  What was a trauma to me could be barely a trial for them.

It feels necessary to explain that my condition is not known by most of my family, nor my husband's.  It's awkward to find an opening in the conversation for, "I have a condition called Bi-polar, type 2.  It would be great if you could try really hard to not be an asshole to me."  Because that's all I want, for people to understand that although I can Mama Bear for my kids more than effectively, my own traumas have left me a little fragile and mean people suck.   In some ways, it's like living in a land with no elevators, having two broken legs and everyone is demanding you climb the stairs on your own.  Climbing the stairs is such a normal activity, they couldn't possibly understand why anyone wouldn't be able to do it. And I can't remember how I broke my legs, I just know they don't work.