incapacity bipolar
Imagine a straight line, as the horizon, perhaps, something fixed horizontally. Represents the division, the thin line between happiness and misery. Living in the line is immutable, level, safe and consistent. Living in the line of means living in a normal state, a normal state if you will. Normally, this line is the partition between two sectors radically different emotion.
Being aware of my own mental atmosphere and the analogy of the line of regard to my emotions described well established theory. Deprived of my own emotions high and low, any other existence than I have known would be stability in the chaos.
As a child, I knew nothing about the lines or the degrees of mood. Like my parents, I had my own background of melancholy, but life was a balancing act. Children are simply expected to be happy, but at an early age, I was staggering around, but mostly somewhere down the line.
Growing up, life was a mix of high and low. There's a fine line between each degree of distance from the line. If the horizon is the level of emotion, on which it can represent the beauty, joy, warmth, joy, pleasure, excitement, joy, euphoria, ecstasy, and more. These are the emotions mental preference, the emotions of desire. But like my parents, otherwise the background fills my mood. Unfortunately, the more below the line is closer to sadness, discouragement, loneliness, misery and anguish of being.
In childhood, the horror of mental manipulation is not understood and therefore therefore can not be treated so that emissions from their victims of their reach. Unfortunately, my adult life no different from my childhood. Failure to recognize the situations I have found and the degree to which affected me. But they produce symptoms that should have been a clue, and the warning signs that went unheeded provided for instability and mine self-medication. In other words, there were periods where I have used drugs as a method of self-medication, as a survival mechanism, not realizing that my mind teeters on the fine line that the exact time. Below the line, which I did regularly, meant struggling with sadness, hopelessness, and a desire for isolation, none what could signify the onset of depression.
I have found that the fall deeper and deeper into the well of life is a journey of empty and worthless in the rapid exhaustion feel. Lower still was the despair, panic, and sometimes even paralysis. This depression and illness in general requires the contemplation of suicide, even by desperation or obsession.
Although some may argue that living below the line is time cathartic time, I'd say it's a slippery slope to the subway. It may well be a race against time to prevent the silencing of the land of his soul.
I apologized to my husband many times because they live below the line has not only affected me, that has affected the whole family. My brothers, daughters and I are very familiar the volatility of the parents, but it takes some getting used to. Although my own education lacks unity of the family, it was my sincere wish to avoid any semblance of my past. The circle was devoid of emotion, devotion and loyalty should not have been my heritage and my ancestors expect nothing less than for me to do my best to overcome it.
It is my impression that, exclusive of a genetic disorder or mental disability, children who are raised with love, even in the worst circumstances, surrounded by a minimally positive environment, have a reasonable chance of living above the line. Hooray!
In my world upside down, lack of affection, warmth and support to the family invited the chaos that was disconcerting, but I survived by necessity. I learned to smile and have learned to be complacent. This was my livelihood, and that showed that my spirit was intact and that I sank.
My father encouraged me to be kind. I noticed it like that and I was pleased to follow suit. My childhood could have been worse. In each place, at every stage, I have had times of plenty. We were a typical middle class family. My father made a good living as the "baby" I wanted for nothing. So mine has been living at the foul line or the line of fire, often just below the line and sometimes above the line and even when I had to draw the line and fall of the line, not the end of the line.
Not yet.
(Excerpt from Life is like a line of Cynthia M. Sabotka and reprinted with permission).
(Originally Published in the goarticles and reprinted with permission of the author, Cynthia M. Sabotka)
About the Author:
Cynthia M. Sabotka is an author and public speaker. Her memoir, Life Is Like a Line: A Memoir of Moods, Medication, and Mania” weaves family stories and events to explain the harmful symptoms of their dysfunctional family and the painful steps of her bipolar journey. Cynthia is available for interviews and speaking engagements. To subscribe to her Bipolar University Newsletter or to learn more about Cynthia, please visit
Life is Like a Line
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Article Source: ArticlesBase.com – Excerpt From Life Is Like A Line, Part Two
