Hi I am Misa and support mental health. I have bipolar type 1 among other things I want to raise awareness for mental health and help those who cannot help themselves

The only person who was there through all my shit died 2 months ago today i promised I would do this

Letter to My Grandma

Dear Grandma,

I’ve been meaning to write this for a long time. You once told me to put my story into words

— to help others understand what it’s like to live inside my head. You probably knew I’d

struggle to start, but here I am, keeping my promise.

Looking back, I always felt something was off in the way I thought. I was that insecure kid

who never really fit anywhere. I was the second of five, but I never felt part of the pack. I had

this weird mix — shy and insecure, but somehow unafraid to get on stage and sing in front of

people. Maybe I was just trying to prove something to Dad. Maybe to myself.

By thirteen, I was already smoking weed, jumping from drug to drug, trying to fill the empty

spaces. I became that punk kid with gauges, piercings, and too much attitude. I liked the rush

of fighting — it made me feel alive when I couldn’t feel anything else. I didn’t care about rules

or consequences. I didn’t even realize I wasn’t feeling until years later, maybe in my late

twenties.

Sorry, Grandma — I should’ve introduced myself properly. I’m Misael, and I’m bipolar. That

explains a lot, doesn’t it? I’m not writing to glorify my mess or list my mischiefs; I’m writing

because I want to make sense of it all — for you, for me, and maybe for someone else who

feels the same.

The truth is, medications suck. They numb me, make me feel like I’m not myself, but I know

they help. Therapy too — it’s a battle, but when I put in the work, I see change. I’m not cured,

and I don’t expect to be. I still mess up, but I don’t see myself as a victim. I’m stubborn, I’m

proud, and I’m learning to accept the chaos that comes with being me.

You were the only one who ever truly saw me, Grandma. When everyone else gave up —

when I was “acting up,” which really meant I was manic — you opened your door. You gave

me safety when I didn’t even want to be safe. You didn’t judge me; you just loved me. When

you passed two months ago, I felt grief for the first time in my life. Real, painful, hollow grief.

I wanted to drink it away, but instead I picked up a pen. You told me to write, and I’m trying

I wish people understood what mental illness really feels like. It’s not a switch you turn off

with prayer or discipline. Trust me — I prayed more than enough. It’s a storm inside you that

sometimes calms, sometimes destroys. And when family calls you names — “drug addict,”

“crazy,” “kill yourself” — it doesn’t heal the wounds, it deepens them. But you know what? I

don’t hate them, Grandma. I pity them. They can’t see past their own fear.

Last night I slept on a bench after another fight at home. The cops didn’t take me seriously. My

dad said I live a “miserable life,” and my mom told me to “kill myself.” I didn’t feel a thing,

Grandma. Not sadness, not anger — just emptiness. But around me were people society calls

“drug addicts,” and I swear, they were more sincere than most people I know. I gave them

what I could, and I realized I want to help them more.

Because I am not a “crazy,” “addict,” or “weird fucker.” I’m Misael. I’m human. I feel deeply,

I love hard, I fall often, but I keep getting up. For the first time in my life, I’m not just existing

— I’m living.

I hope wherever you are, you’re proud. I’m keeping my promise, Grandma. One page at a

time.

With love,

Misael

The funds will be used to support mental health through charity and in person , charity in local shelters , people with p t s d bipolar disorder in other mental disabilities