BY: Bridget Zhang
More times than less, I hate God for making me.
I hate God for giving me life.
In more ways than others, I believe I am being punished.
To be alive feels like a punishment.
When death would be the easy way out.
I hate God for putting me through the things I cannot handle.
While other people have privileges.
It takes me ten steps to make it count as one.
My prayers usually include, why me?
Why does this happen to me?
What does she have that I don’t?
Why doesn’t he love me?
Please kill me now.
Make this pain end.
I would rather go to hell than be here.
Living with bipolar is nothing less than hell on earth.
Then I would punish myself because I would think I have done something worse in my past life.
Every time I do something stupid I blame myself.
I would say I bring my troubles on to myself.
Why did God have to put me through ten traumas while some people don’t even get one?
I use to pray for death.
I am not afraid of death.
I am not afraid of being rubbed in the dark street corner with a gun to my face.
I am not afraid of being stabbed to death.
I am not afraid of being raped.
I am not afraid of drowning.
I am not afraid of pain.
We only fear the unknown.
All those things I have known.
And, a gun to my face would be more relieving,
Rather than scary at all.
So, I hate God.
And for a while I use to reason with Him.
That I would go to church every Sunday if He would make my life easier.
That I would be a good little girl if He would give me a good Christian boy to love.
Then that good Christian boy broke my heart and my spine.
And I could never really put my finger on why.
Why not her?
They are worst humans than I!
I never got that good Christian boy.
Because I stopped going to church every Sunday.
And now, I thank God.
I praise God for making me.
I praise God for everything I had to go through.
Because if it weren’t for that.
What would I write about?
What would I paint about?
What would I sing about?
What would I dance about?
Because without that,
I wouldn’t know what true happiness feels like.
If every day was easy.
I wouldn’t be wise.
So, I thank God for choosing me.
Because someone has to be the scapegoat.
Because He knew I could do it.
And there is so much more meaning to my life.
I have a story to tell.
Experience to share.
Oh hell, whom am I kidding?
I still curse God for picking me.