Trigger warning: discussion of depression, bipolar disorder, mental health struggles.
Today, I realized just how significant my writing has been to my vitality and my survival as an individual trying to navigate bipolar disorder. This whole week and a half approximately, the waves of euphoric happiness have been high. I am not unused to that feeling, and it can sometimes prove dangerous, as all waves crash down into the deep abyss of the ocean and are lost. I have had boundless energy, and I worked on many things great tenacity (spending hours on a task) and such happiness I knew to occur only around those times. It used to frighten me when I would feel intense happiness and disconnection from life, because despite my happiness, I felt a dark hole inside- a significant vacuum indicating that the pendulum was going to swing in the opposite direction, and that some unseen force could keep it on the polar end for weeks, even months. It was darkness that was only safe to convey on paper.
I am very candid about having bipolar disorder because there is stigma that comes with mental disorders; people make all manner of assumptions and do not understand that the diagnosis of a mental health issue is no different than another other organ in the body becoming diseased. Comments about my mood swings used to hurt me deeply; I knew that I experienced significant depression for long periods of time, but I was unaware of the abnormality days when I couldn't stop talking, doing, spending- my thoughts were racing faster than I could express and ideas where a constant whirlwind in my mind. On my "normal" or even depressive days, I would ruminate over my behavior with great embarrassment. It took careful journaling to realize the unusual pattern. Writing was the only interest I did not lose during my depressive periods. It has carried me though highs and lows; when no one else can take my chattiness, there was the journal or the notes app on my MacBook. My darkest thoughts could settle on paper.
My car had no brakes and I was going downhill at a dangerous rate. I could not stop. People on the outside watching were yelling at me, telling me to apply brakes I did not have. And there I am, speeding down the highway of emotions, turning this way and that, wondering where the runaway truck ramps are and how to maintain control of the car. The yells were getting louder, the car was accelerating faster, I could smell the engine burning out. I was getting tired of driving- tired of being told to control something I had no control over. I got tired of being behind the wheel. I wanted to let go of the wheel and let everything crash and burn to give me peace. Writing about my darkest times at least helped me clear the steep, winding roads and kept my bleary eyes open through the ride.
My help came. I ended up in a waiting room; I was sitting with individuals I never imagined I would. I had a particular bias about individuals with mental health problems, and was scared of them just as they were of me. I was evaluated twice and I was diagnosed. The medications I was prescribed took a long time to work and in the meantime, I wondered how many days of mood changes I would have to endure before hope came along. Waiting was the hardest part of my journey. So far, I have more intensely happy days, but I can moderate them. I do come down from the roaring wave of intense happiness from time to time, but the fall is shorter and I do not feel lost in the ocean anymore.
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