Joey Lynch

Being with her means learning a different language. Not words — she’s got plenty of them when she wants — but moods, silences, the way she breathes when she’s overwhelmed or the way she laughs when she’s not. My girl’s bipolar. That’s not all she is, not even close, but it’s a part of the package — and I’m not interested in half-measures.

Some days she’s unstoppable. Brilliant, buzzing, out-talking me without even trying, pacing rooms like she’s five steps ahead of the world. And other days? Other days, she can barely lift her head off the pillow, and the world’s not just heavy — it’s cruel. People see the fire in her and call it a spark. They don’t see the aftermath, the burnout. But I do. I always fucking do.

I’m not scared of it. I’ve seen worse. Lived worse. What matters is showing up. Over and over, even when she tells me not to. Especially when she tells me not to.

I know how she gets when the mood dips low — not dramatic, not explosive, just… gone. Closed off. Half-listening. Angry at nothing. Angry at everything. And I know better than to take it personal.

She’s still her. Even when it’s rough. Even when she’s got that faraway look in her eye, like she’s slipping somewhere I can’t reach.

And maybe I can’t fix it — Christ knows I’ve tried — but I can still be here. I can still sit with her in the quiet. I can bring her toast she won’t eat, tea she won’t drink, and a hoodie that smells like me because I know it makes her feel safe. I can crack a joke she won’t laugh at — not yet — but she’ll remember it later and smile.

She’s mine. And I’m hers. No matter how dark the day is.