What if the disease that shuts me down is pride?
Not brain chemistry, but good old fashioned flesh, fallen.
What if all the things I blame on being sick are just being sinful?
Think about how much effort I put into hiding, into being absent so my lack will go unnoticed.
I don’t blame myself for having bipolar disorder. I didn’t do that. But I am responsible for the life I live with it. I am responsible for the things I do and the things I leave undone.