Bipolar and Motherhood

If only motherhood was fuel
that energized my body, ignited my bones
and kept it eternally moving, no need for rest,
no stopping; sleep is for the wicked–
kept my eyes wide open like surgical fingertips
forcefully prying my eyelids apart, steady–
no need to breathe, to shake, no pregnant pauses and solitude–
the kind that rejuvenates, that exists only in the silence accompanying the air while walking through nature —
no deprivation of serenity, just an endless blur
of hushed tones, strict guidance, lullabies and bedtime stories
because somehow, within all this rigid pressure
of raising someone right, and never letting them feel

afraid, unsupported, unloved and alone

while you, yourself is feeling

afraid, unsupported, unloved and alone —

you still need to be a person

but not just a person —

a role model they can look up to,
someone they’re proud of, someone they can write essays about
on Why I Love My Mother or Why My Mother is My Hero,
someone they admire, and love, but also not their friend
all these rules choking me when all I feel is that I’m failing to hide
the failure I’ve always suspected myself to be,
and doubts — am I doing this right?
fears — what if this was a mistake?
regrets — was I ready for this?
and that burning need for self-immolation —

what made me think I could possibly do this?

I present as solid because it’s the only option
but everyday I want to buckle under the weight of my responsibilities.

I wonder what keeps everybody else afloat
when all I want to do is sink
I got sober but I’m not a soldier
and this mission is slowly destroying me.
This fear’s got a hold of me
and I’m so close to breaking I can taste it.

I’m right here but I’m already gone
and yet somehow I keep going,
and going,
and going.