“The Animals in My Chest” by Anonymous Teen

They call it bipolar disorder. 

It’s a word, a label— a neat little definition that attempts to box the chaos: “A mental health condition that is characterized by extreme mood swings that range from manic highs to depressive lows.” 

I called it the animals in my chest. 

Because that’s what it’s like—some days, a wolf walking around in its cage and howling hunger and heat in my ribs with my eyes awake and heart sharp, spinning across the world so quickly to cut my skin, and I am alive, alive, alive. 

Some days, a bear curled and sleeping in darkness, breathing heavy so that I could taste the sadness and mourning, with no name mourning that senses me and puts weight on him, so that I can't move, and I am still, I am stone, waiting, looking for spring that does not come. 

And some days, I am both. A still, trembling, shivering thing. A wolf trying to wake the bear. A bear trying to silence the wolf. A forest on fire and frozen at once. 

They say "chronic illness," and there's something about it that sounds so civilized. So little. But they have never seen the nights when I am on the floor rocking and biting my fist so I do not scream loud enough to wake the house, because the thoughts are screaming already and if I let them out I am terrified I will not survive it. 

They have never seen the 3:00 a.m. me, washing the same counter over and over until my hands bleed, convinced that as long as I stay awake a little longer, write a little more, clean a little more, plan a little more, I can fix my life, because I feel God in anything I have left and the world is begging me to save it. 

They have never seen the 3:00 p.m. me, frozen and unable to move, watching the sun crawl across the floor and promising myself ten more minutes to get up, just ten more, I will get up, I will get up, but I am not getting up.

They do not see how I stare into my own face and do not recognize the eyes looking back. 

They say "it gets better", but they don't have to sit through the nights where I have folded into myself, and whispered to my ceiling, begging for the storm to move on. they tell to "self care", but some days brushing teeth is like climbing mount everest, with broken bones. They tell me to "think positive", but they don't hear the static that consumes the thought before it can even start to develop. They do not see me clawing at the little light, terrified of what I might do if the dark still wins. I want tell them, I am not strong. I am just here, and right now, that's got to be enough. 

When my memories were fresh, I thought it was my fault. I even thought if I prayed hard enough, kept healthy, was active, and smiled more, it could go away. If I wasn't so "dramatic," if I wasn't "so much," if I wasn't "making excuses," I would be fine. 

What I did not understand then, is that it isn't my fault. 

That it isn't punishment or weakness or a character flaw. 

It's an illness. It is a hurricane in the wiring in my brain. 

It is the way my neurons spark lightning in the dark, and my thoughts crash and race, and my heart beats for no reason at 2 a.m. It is all the way I tremble when I try to hold a pencil, and how heavy my legs feel when I try to get out of bed. It is the battle I fight, every moment of every day, even when I am laughing, even when I am sitting quietly listening to a teacher in class. It is just as real, even if no one else can see it. 

There are days that I wish I was "normal". I wish I contained peace. I wish I could wake up and not feel anxious about how my day will play out. 

And then there are those days where I have a world full of colors that no one else sees. Days where the music is so beautiful I will cry in the grocery store. Days where I will take my friend's hand in mine, look her straight in the eyes and say, "You're allowed to be a mess!" and I meant it because I have been that mess.

There is a kind of haunting beauty to that. 

To feel everything with such depth, to see those cracks of light shining where everyone sees only grey. To notice the way shadows dance on the wall, or how a laugh can taste like freedom, or how the wind can bring a new beginning even when the day feels awful. To know when someone says they're "tired", they very likely are carrying storms too heavy for them to identify. To feel that the softness we show each other in our most broken moments can also mean our survival. 

If you exist with this—if your mind is a wildfire and a glacier and a wolf and a bear—know this: You are not broken. 

You are not too much. 

You are not alone. 

You are not weak for taking medication. 

You are not a failure for needing help. 

You can take up space. 

You can rest. 

You can want to live, even when it hurts. 

It’s alright to feel heavy. It’s alright to have days when you cannot handle the mental heaviness, and still turn up for yourself, even if that is the only thing you can turn up for. You person are not the storms in your mind; you are the courage to keep standing in the eye of them. Stay, and keep breathing, and keep holding on. There is no shame in being on the backs of others, there is no shame in needing help, there is no shame in saying "I cannot today." Each breath you take is an act of rebellion against a world that expects you to be perfectly and quietly. You matter, your voice matters, it matters to tell your story, your pains matter – not out of weakness, but because a story of pain is more than a story of strength. Sometimes, just being human and surviving is the brave thing you can do, and in that survival you are quietly developing a powerful resilience that no illness can take from you. Stay. Stay. Stay here. That is enough. That is everything.

I do not have a happy ending for you. 

I still have days when I am afraid of myself. 

I still have days where I want to disappear. 

I still have days when I don't even know how to stay. 

But I am here. 

I am breathing. 

I am figuring out that even on the days when the monsters are very loud, when the world is too bright or too dark, when the silence is deafening and suffocating—I am here. 

And maybe that is enough. 

Maybe staying is enough. 

And maybe one day we will learn to call that living.