As a bipolar, I’ve always told myself to disappear when the lows consume me. I withdraw, isolate, let myself fall to the lowest point. But when I return, I’m not better. I come back with more scars, more weight, with the mark of depression’s toll that never fully fades. Each time I return, it gets harder.

The euphoria doesn’t hit like before, and the darkness has more grip. I’m not who I was, I’m something different, but not better. What remains is a version of myself still fighting with what’s left.