Three years ago today, I was diagnosed with Bipolar II.
In many ways, the time has flown by. I’m not the same person I was when I walked out of The Waterford and cried in my car about the fact people would judge me when they heard the word bipolar.
On my one year anniversary of being diagnosed, I bought a cake and blew out candles. I considered November 28 the date of my second chance at living life. On the two year anniversary, I wrote something that caught the attention of a journalist and I was on the radio talking about my joy at being given a second chance.
But this year, I’ve been dreading the day. It’s been more than six months since I’ve felt consistently stable. I’ve gone for a few days of feeling okay, before plunging down into a depression or bouncing back up and soaring into the realms of shiny glitter, agitation, and a pace so fast I can barely keep people from noticing.
Is it rapid cycling? Probably. I’ve been avoiding going back to my psychiatrist. Tucked on my shelf is a little bottle of pills he prescribed when I saw him last. They haven’t been touched— my fear of gaining more weight, and other side effects, holding me back. As someone who tells the world not to be afraid of pills, this is a source of shame because it means I’m a hypocrite.
In fact, I’ve been a hypocrite for months. I’ve cowered into corners and hid from getting help— all the while telling others that they shouldn’t be scared. I’ve felt sorry for myself, spent money even though I knew I was hypo-manic, and made excuses for staying in bed and wallowing in wanting to die. I’ve avoided questions about how I am doing. I’ve avoided even thinking about managing the illness. I’ve gone weeks of taking my pills at random and drinking too much. There have been times I’ve thought maybe I should just pretend I’m cured and stop taking medication all together.
I’ve gone so far as to sit down to write a suicide note, plan a death that would look like an accident, and double check my life insurance to make sure my debts would be paid and the house given to the person I want to inherit it.
All the while, I’ve gone to work, gone out with friends, and appeared “strong” to many. Oh, I’ve been told I’m emotional— especially by people who seem to revel in my struggles, but for the most part, my people have been unwavering in their support. Would they be disappointed that in me if my “strength” faded away?
How do I drag myself out of it? How do I find the gratitude I felt one year ago?
I have taken steps. I’ve gotten a pass to go back to the track and run. I’ve purchased a mini trampoline. I’m trying to eat better. I’ve cut back on the drinking.
But everything still feels uncertain and like a battle.
I was going to lie today and say that I’m filled with hope. I’m not. I was going to try and say something inspirational— but that’s silly when I don’t feel it.
DO NOT feel sorry for me. I can tell you that I know I’m still better off than I was three years ago. I still know what’s going on. I have the tools to fight through the suicidal ideation, anger, and fast pace fits of energy.
Getting help IS the best thing that ever happened to me, and I know how lucky I am. In fact, the guilt runs deep because I know I’m a lot better off than many with my condition.
I resolved a long time to be real about the struggles of having Bipolar II— and I am, sometimes. Usually in the wake of an episode when I can offer words of hope.
But in the middle of a cycle— especially this never ending one in 2019, it’s hard to be real. Because I don’t want people to feel sorry for me, or admit to my unhealthy habits. I want people to be proud of how far I’ve come.
The fact is that people get stuck in self-destructive ways because they are sick of trying to get better and it failing. They are sick of the pills not working. They are sick of dragging their friends down with the same cycle over and over. It is the reality.
If there is one thing I can say I am thankful for, it’s the fact that I can work through all this in Newfoundland and Labrador. That I can sit in my haven in the rock and look at the ocean in the morning. That my miracle kitty snuggles me when the darkness crowds in. That I can dance in my living room when I don’t know what to do with the energy.
Life is beautiful. I know that.
I hope I hold onto that forever— even as I continue to spin in the cycles of high and low.
Here’s to second chances, even when we don’t appreciate them as much as we should.
