Sex Metal Barbie

Today was a day of many mind blowing, perspective spinning, unrealistic reality affirming moments.
It started with me looking at my timehop app. For those of you not familiar it's an app that will take you up to 5 years back in time harnessing your facebook and twitter as a means of showing you where you were and what you were doing via your posts.
I was besotted with images of me and my beloved Effie. I had gone to a reptile show and one vendor had bird items and I splurged on a whole bunch of things for her.
There were pictures of Effie and I. Her on my shoulder or finger, her looking like she was posing for pictures. A small knife was driven into my heart and luckily all the children were asleep and my coworker put out of the room when I couldn't help but cry.
Through out the day I was heavily concentrated on a manic episode I had the night before, trying to bait someone into an argument whom I would take a full magazine of bullets for.
Being bipolar isn't a focal point of my life. Rather it's like a baby taking their first steps and every step from then on becomes a laborious process requiring all their thought and physical concentration to continue the process of putting one foot in front of the other, instinctively knowing now that they've begun this mode of transportation it would be a requirement for the rest of their lives.
I don't walk around seeking sympathy from people. I just want to keep on the journey I chose to start when I sought out treatment and like that baby have begun a mental mode of transportation I will have to continue the rest of my life and to boil it down to it's simplest form I'm just trying to figure out all the mechanics.
I'm not fixed or cured because I have a therapist and psychiatrist and pills. This is the hardest part to get anyone to understand. I've been this way my whole life and it's gone unnoticed. Even by myself until not so distant events made me realize something else was going on.
Then at the end of the day I find out a girl from my graduating class died yesterday. We were by no means friends. We were enemies by the rawest definition but she still played a large roll in a good portion of my life thusly.
I don't think it's ill to speak unkindly of the dead. I think it's ill to not speak the truth about them.
At my funeral I want people to come up one by one stating both my flaws and good qualities.
We veritably hated each other. She did her best to torture me until graduation when neither one of us had power over the other one. I started a rumor about her that I don't think she lived down for a few years after high school. Sometimes the lowest underdog can strike gold.
But I would never wish death upon someone for high school childishness that I equally participated in once provoked. She was one of many cookie cutter girl bullies who once they lit the fire couldn't extinguish it and wish they had never started it once they found out their boyfriends were in a room somewhere at a kegger with me instead of them.
Her death is an eye opener. Here I am worrying everyday about if I'll die when I survived and she never saw it coming.
May she rest in peace and now have full view of my exploits from above and have more than a few good laughs.
I remember one day she grabbed my arm in the hallway and yelled at me "why don't you like me?!" after she lost yet another boyfriend to my black widow like web. She caused all my books to fall and my cd player to skid across the hallway. I looked at her and I said "because of what you do. What you do to people like me. Because you don't think I matter and I matter more than you've come to realize or ever will. People like me are survivors"
Who knew how true that would be.