I don’t know what to write anymore. I am afraid. I don’t want the truth spilling out everywhere, in places that I can’t contain it. I am forever just cleaning up messes from the things I do and say, from the things I am too frightened to do or say. And I’m not even manic or depressed, I am barely there. What’s left of me sits still to avoid calling attention to herself. I am having to pretend that I am not bipolar. It hurts my head to be like this. There’s ringing in my ears and my jaw is clenched tight.

I smile. I answer the questions: How would you handle a child who didn’t want to sit at circle time? What would your supervisor say is your greatest strength and an area of growth for you? Oh, so you didn’t like teaching art? I never said that. Are you listening to me? I am looking for a job with less responsibility because I am bipolar and that’s all I can handle. Wait, no, I didn’t say that. Because you can’t know me if I am to be hired. I have to keep my secret.

How will I do if I am hired? Will there be a repeat of my brain drain from my last job? Will I be able to keep the secret? This dance seems to be more complicated each time I practice it. Shouldn’t it be getting easier?

No one promised anything, you just deal with it as it comes. I can prepare myself by taking the best possible care of myself as I can. It needs to be a goal on the forefront of my mind. Take care of yourself. I do okay, but I need to do better. I am reading the latest edition of Julie Fast and John Preston’s book “Take Charge of Bipolar Disorder,” to remind myself what else I can be doing. I find it comforting and helpful. I know a day will come when I don’t have to pretend and I can be more open.