**TRIGGER WARNING: this post includes topics such as self-harm and suicide.

This isn’t a sappy love story. It starts with a suicide attempt.

I found myself on the floor contemplating death, blood running down my body. I am bipolar, and this was a particularly bad depressive episode. For days at a time, I lay in fetal position, crying for hours and wishing the pain would go away.

He had done all he could to make me happy. My serious boyfriend of a year had brought me frozen yogurt, held me as I cried, and taken me on a hike. Nothing worked. He loved me so much, and hated to see me hurt like this. The only thing he could actually do to help was to take away all the sharp objects and hold me back as I tried to jump out of the window.

Months later, he crushed under pressure. I had solely counted on him for support. Yeah, I had great friends. I had a therapist and a psychiatrist, and my family helped as well. But he was the one I trusted with everything. And it was too much. No one should have to save someone from suicide. We broke things off. I was heavyhearted and broken. It was time for me to learn to live on my own.

Let me tell you, I am not stagnant. After my boyfriend and I broke up, I healed. I learned from what went wrong and the hurt that was caused. I discovered methods of self-care and medications that would help with my bipolar disorder. I stopped self-harming. I created a crisis plan with the help of my amazing best friends. These were all good things. I learned how to feel safe and sound and cared for by myself. I learned how to love myself.

But I never really felt ready to try again. Sure, I hooked up with people. I would find a cute guy, spend some time with him, and then leave. Or he would leave. And that was fine.

It’s better if I can’t trust him, I thought. Then I don’t have to share this part of me. I can just keep pretending that everything is okay. I don’t have to cause him pain or anxiety. I won’t depend on him. Everything is better this way.

You see, it’s impossible for me to be in a relationship again.

I care very deeply for the people closest to me. My favorite thing to do is listen to someone I love. Listen to the things they care most about—listen to their joys, their hurt, their anxieties, and hopes and dreams—and share mine. These are moments I thrive in. I love to hug and kiss and cry and cuddle and laugh and talk for hours.

I care too much about the people around me to involve them in this shit.

I’m okay, but it’s still shitty. I have no authority over my body. I spin out of control upon a moments notice. I won’t sleep for weeks at a time. I lose my short-term memory capacity. I am impulsive and have a tendency of thinking about walking in front of trains. I lose sight of what is important. Most of the time I feel like the world is ending. I feel violent or hopeless or infinite or all three at once.

And I don’t want to put that on anyone else. So I will continue to meet men, sleep with them, break my own heart and drift away.

But the desire is still there. It’s not abnormal to want someone to hold you close and really care about you. It’s not wrong to want a deeper relationship than just sex. I’d like someone I could trust. But it’s complicated. Love stories always are.

Signed,

-xxxx