My mother taught this poem to me:
I think this is a great metaphor for how I feel with bipolar disorder, as a matter of fact when I look back on my life it’s also an explanation for why I did some of the things I did.
I was very dramatic as a little girl, although I don’t have many memories from that time period. My father used to call me Sarah Bernhardt, who was well known for her dramatic and tragic roles.
As I got older, I can remember that life was either wonderful or horrible. My old diaries from Junior High school had pages of “I’ve never felt love like this before;” but I also have memories of being unable to get up from the couch feeling incredibly sad, and I felt sick almost every morning. I had always been an excellent student; but the terrible mood swings made me want to be isolated, although I had an incredibly wonderful friend with whom I’m still close. Then as a young adult, the inappropriate behavior, cutting and suicidal ideations kicked in, which lasted most of my adult life.
Now in my 50s, I still struggle. My mania is mostly under control (it does still rear it’s ugly head occasionally); but as I might have mentioned before, my depression seems to be unresponsive to meds. I’ve recently had a medication change, so I’m trying to stay hopeful that this time it will work.
As you can see, my hair was very straight as a little girl, but now that I’m older it has become very curly. So I’ve updated the poem just a little.