(This is originally a social media account status message I wrote which I thought I should repost here.)
This is a mystery to me, actually. If one helps himself or herself all throughout, then there’s no need for help to come from the outside because yes, you can do it anyway.
I have been enduring this for a long time. Mostly I don’t care anymore but there are evenings and mornings where the emptiness does not subside, with some more extraneous dilemmas that are tangible and which I have to think of even more. It is like a prison cell—you are trapped with nowhere to go and no amount of effort is there left that I rouse myself out from it. My whole strength would wane; there are times I could not continue. And this is not a question of just seeking help but also of something chronic that has a cycle of its own. Bipolar disorder is no joke, something to be remarked upon as “well just help yourself out of it.” That’s why help is there. Supposedly. However, given the recent mild breakdown I almost had last night, I have wondered whether help is just an abstract thing altogether. That all these that I would work for in my life is not as real as they ought, help included. I have to work for my own help. I have to think that I could still make it, to weather out the storms. But no, I cannot make it on my own and there are moments that the aloneness strikes me to my core and nudges me further down, little by little, until I am tied to oblivion.
So should I need help? I do not know; but one thing is for sure: there’s no use pining for it, given the mentality of the world. If I sink, I would not not know for sure if I should even stay on top of the water or drown. I can always choose to drown or die, or float and be alive. However, is still there even a choice between the two? I would not go for choices any longer. It’s a matter of what I live for in my everyday, sinking or floating or whatever comes my way.
This is the paradox of assistance and help that I yet have to unlock. Until I understand, I shall never believe.