Plurk paste

I totally love when people define me by my disorder. There's a song written by someone with the disorder that has the lyrics "You're a symptom superficial to what they call knowing you" and I live those lyrics. We don't define people with cancer by the weakness and hair loss from their chemo. We don't define people with epilepsy by their seizures. But I get to be defined by the symptoms of my disease.

I am a father, a son, a cousin, a brother, an uncle, a friend. I am an artist, a writer, and someone who will do whatever he can to help someone in need. IQ tests place me at 150, but I rarely act that intelligent, often dumbing myself down. I believe that people are good until they prove me wrong. I absolutely love dogs and enjoy a cuddly kitty. I know my way around under the hood of a car thanks to a mechanic father who taught his gay son how to get all greasy. I also know my way around the kitchen thanks to a mother who was the best cook ever. I am not bipolar any more than anyone is cancer--I have bipolar.

So, lately, I've had to really distance myself from someone who is abusive to me when drunk. This morning I logged into a message blaming me for the distance because I'm obviously manic. Actually, I'm quite stable other than a deep sadness today because I miss my mother. I'm very irritated about this assumption and you get to hear it because I need to vent.

I have every right to stand up for myself, even if I do have bipolar. I have had men from past relationships use the "you have bipolar, so what you're unhappy about is automatically because of that" logic. There's no more logic in that than there is in saying to a woman who is frustrated that her husband keeps coming home drunk and missing the toilet when he vomits, leaving it for her to clean up, that she must be having her period.

Anyway, I won't vent again. But I won't put up with anyone deciding that my choice to do what's right for myself is because I have a disorder. I may be broken, but I'm not stupid.