Dear Bipolar,
I am writing you this letter 1,622 days since you came into my life and stole my sweet husband’s soul.
This letter will reach you 908 days after you physically took my husband from me.
Since you have done this to so many peoples life’s, you probably don’t remember me. I will try to refresh your memory.
1,622 days ago, you came into my life, uninvited. You were not invited in, I know I did not leave a door or window open, yet suddenly you were there. You stepped into my husband’s soul, turned my amazing and vibrant husband into a depressed, angry, anxiety ridden, empty shell of a person.
You caused my amazingly bright and creative husband to see dead people, hear voices, and caused him to think about suicide daily. Your voice was in my husband’s head. You ridiculed him at every turn. “You’re not good enough” you said.
You took the sparkle out of his eye.
You took the pep out of his walk.
You took away his smile. How could you take away that amazing smile??
You took away his trust and faith in the world around him, causing him to think the world was after him.
You even made my husband think I was out to harm him.
You entered our life when we were just getting started. You see, we were happy. We didn't need YOU. Yet, you kept working on my husband. Bit by bit, destroying him.
908 days ago, you put a gun to my husband’s head and took him away from me.
Left me widowed at 29 years old.
Left me widowed at 29 years old.
When I am angry about my husband’s suicide, I blame you.
My husband would have never killed himself. But you were happy to do it.
Bipolar, I hate everything about you.
I hate your games, your mania, your depression, your psychosis, even your name. Bipolar = Two polar opposites. Did you leave something out when you created your name? I think you did.
Because of you, I do not get to see my “happy ending”. I do not get to live to be old with my husband. We will never have children or fulfill our dreams and goals.
Bipolar, your day is coming. I might not live to see that day. But your days are numbered.
A cure is coming.
It might be in the form of a pill, a shot, surgery, or hell.. maybe even a microchip.
When I get to the other side, my first duty is to get rid of you.
I will not let you destroy another person. I will not let you destroy another family.
Mark my words, your days are coming to an end.
And I will be watching, with my husband’s arms around me, with a huge bowl of popcorn and a huge beer when it all comes crashing down.
And guess what?
Fuck you Bipolar!
And guess what?
Fuck you Bipolar!
Sincerely,
M
(If you or someone you know suffers from mental illness (Including if you have a parent that is mentally ill but you are not, they want to study YOU), PLEASE consider organ donation to the Harvard Brain Bank <-- click="click" font="font" here.="here.">
They are trying to find a cure for mental illness, but need organ donation.
My husband wanted his brain donated to the Harvard Brain Bank, unfortunately I could not fulfill that wish.
Please help with the research and study of mental illness for future generations.)
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