“It sounds like you’re well-read on bipolar disorder,” the resident told me.

Well, I wasn’t. Not at the time.

At the time I was frightened, and concerned enough about the state of my own thoughts, the arc of my behaviour over the course of a month, that I had come down to Psychiatric Emergency in the middle of a cataclysmic thunderstorm. It was a summer night, and I was armed with little other than my iPod and some simple mantras I kept silently repeating. This can’t continue. I have to find a new way to be.

It was also a Tuesday.

I told him what I’ll tell you: I came across a description of bipolar disorder while looking up depression on the Internet. I was approaching what one might term desperate, aware that I as coming apart but not of any how or why; and after sling-shotting about the range of frenzy and misery for weeks, when I hyper-linked to a survey that denoted warning signs, I filled it in; it told me to go see a doctor; it seemed like a pretty solid idea. So, I stopped reading and started trying to find help. Which, turns out, wasn’t as easy as it sounded when I committed to the course of action in my head.

In honesty, I probably wasn’t that clear when I told him—what I stammered out was something more like “I’m not trying to self-diagnose, if that’s what you’re implying!” As I said, I wasn’t feeling too well at the time.

That was two weeks ago. I don’t know if I’ve come very far since then, though the days have felt very long; but I do know that I’m on interim medication, that my mind and my emotions have come back to some reasonable control, and I that I don’t know what to expect out of life anymore.

But not that I ever did.


~ by A Mundi on July 21, 2008.

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