Initially my diagnosis didn’t come as much of a shock to me. It was more of a relief. I did show up at the emergency room in the middle of the night exclaiming “Something is wrong with me!” after all. I was just too happy to finally find out what that “something” was.
As I got better and changed back into something that resembled a “fully functioning” human being, there have been times that I wondered if I was really ill. It usually only takes about two weeks for my mood to shift, as if to say “Ha! And there you thought you were well and health. Mwhuhahaha!” So I haven’t wondered whether or not I was really Bipolar very often. But that doesn’t mean I like it one bit, or that I don’t become frustrated and even enraged by it.
As of today I am, very reluctantly, back on Seroquel (anti-psychotics), and I don’t like it one bit. I worked really hard to get off it a few months ago, and it feels like I’m taking a step back. Unfortunately it’s become very clear, even to me, that my emotional reactions are disproportionate to what triggers it. And sometimes life happens and you can’t have a meltdown and become suicidal every time something upsets you. Speaking of suicide, I said to my psychiatrist: “Surely every person thinks about how it would be to kill themselves at least once in their lives. In my mind it’s a normal thought.” He looked at my wide eyed: “You might be surprised, but it’s actually not. People don’t just think about killing themselves.” Being depressed for roughly two weeks every month is not working out so well and with a stressful time at work ahead Seroquel seemed to be the only answer. I am mad and it sucks and I am going to get fat again and only start functioning after 11 if I’m lucky. Even though I know that Seroquel basically saved my life, I stopped in the first place because it feels like I have to navigate my whole life around it.
To come back to accepting your diagnosis. Taking my pills have become a habit and mostly I try not to think about it. It’s only when it gets mixed up again and I have to remember what dose of what and break pills in half (I am the proud owner of a pill cutter…) etc that I really become conscious of it again, like today. Somehow it becomes more real again and I go back to being pissed off, frustrated and feeling rebellious about it. I go back to hating myself, my life, my illness, the world, everything. I become acutely aware of the fact that I will be struggling to manage this thing for the rest of my life. And then I get overwhelmed with feelings of guilt and self-loathing for acting like my life is so much worse than everyone else’s. Of course all these emotions make my condition even worse. I have to get use to the idea all over again. I have Bipolar Disorder. It is chronic. It will never go away. I will spend the rest of my life struggling with mental illness. I will get better but at some point it will get worse again. Life goes on. Until I finally, again, accept that this is my reality.
On that note, with the Seroquel kicking in and the letters starting to swim on my screen, I bid you good night.