Not defined by my disorder but often consumed

A very wise person told me that I was not my disorder, just as my father, who died at 33 of a massiave heart attack, wasn't heart disease, nor was my aunt who died of cancer, cancer.  She made a wise observation that gave me pause to think and to realize the truth in her words and in that truth, some strength.


I am not bipolar disorder, I am Jane, mom of 2, wife to a wonderful but often non-understanding, lacking in the ability to show compassion, husband.  In Mr. Jane's defense, I suppose it's hard to know what to do when you know there really isn't anything you can do. It's not nasal congestion where you can run to the store and purchase decongestant. It's not a skinned knee where Neosporin and a band-aid can be applied.
I hate that it affects my family the way it does, more so my husband because he's an adult but also my children, and probably more and more as they get older. But I bottle in so much of it, it affects me far more than it does any of them. Bipolar, especially "lulls", are the demon on my shoulder. Ever present, ever waiting to show up, ever ready to rear its' ugly  head and consume me with sadness and thoughts and sometimes wishes for death.  I recently read an article on CNN.com that said in the U.S., 91 people commit suicide daily. I wonder how many  of these suffer from bipolar/manic/depressive disorder?

Bipolar has a domino effect. It falls down to immediate family, then extended family, then friends, and then when it's all too much to bear, strangers.  The tears are here and they just keep coming, with no forseeable end in sight. How unfair that no matter how hard I try to keep it in, it affects those I love and live with, those most precious to me.