Introduction to My Memoir

I never wanted to write this. 
For years, I lived in the noise inside my head—louder than thunder, quieter than a whisper. It took the shape of racing thoughts, sleepless nights, euphoria that felt divine, and darkness that pulled me under like an undertow. Bipolar disorder doesn’t knock. It kicks down the door, wears your clothes, steals your voice, and leaves you explaining the wreckage with your hands shaking and your eyes avoiding everyone’s. 
This isn’t a story of triumph, though I’ve survived. It isn’t a story of collapse, though I’ve fallen hard. This is a story of movement. Of a mind that swings between silence and screams. Of a life lived in color so bright it burns and in shadows so thick it suffocates. 
I’m writing this for the ones who’ve felt “too much” and “not enough” in the same breath. For those who’ve sat in psychiatrists’ offices trying to explain something they can barely name. For the people who’ve loved someone like me—who’ve walked on eggshells or run for cover. And I’m writing this for myself because I’m tired of pretending I’m not still learning how to live with it. 
Bipolar disorder is not who I am, but it shapes how I move through the world. It has taken things from me—years, jobs, friends, and pieces of myself I may never get back. However, it has also given me perspective, compassion, a unique and sharp creativity, and a profound hunger for peace. 
This is my truth, raw and unpolished. I won’t always make myself look good. I won’t always explain everything just right. But I’ll tell you what it was like and what it’s like now. 
Because silence doesn’t always mean peace. 
Sometimes, silence screams.