Ictus

I have, until this point, avoided writing anything at all about bi-polar disorder, including my experiences as a patient, through managing the disorder, up until now. Everything I ever even
thought about the topic sounded, in my critical little brain, unbelievably cliched. I was diagnosed as a 23-year-old and at that point I was far past my Good Charlotte years, and I have no intention of sounding like a snivelling teen in therapy.

It was my psychiatrist, Dr. I.F., who first suggested writing about bi-polar. When we first met she asked what I liked to do as a pastime. I told her I like to read and that I've always enjoyed writing. She mentioned that people who have creative tendencies often have some form of mental illness. I knew this already because of the inspirational posters on the walls of our group therapy rooms. She suggested that I keep a journal about my new life and I did for a while and hated everything I wrote, and so stopped and have largely given up writing until now, aside from the odd scribbling.

Recently, though, things have come to a head. I feel increasingly frustrated, largely with the day to day persistence through moods and the things in life which I do not particularly like. These things are often changing; my job, for example. I don't enjoy it most days but occasionally I like my work and that enables me to continue getting up out of bed in the mornings. However, it doesn't pay nearly enough to make up for the days when I leave my home and need to force myself not to call in sick on the way.

I'm not tired of dealing; I'm always going to deal. If there's anything that I can say for myself it's that I've always tucked my head to my chest and windmilled my arms and somehow come out on the other side of whatever has come my way. What I need now is an outlet. As it stands now my only real outlets are conversations with S., my boyfriend, and I start to really feel sorry for him sometimes because he lives with me and as such hears most of my grievances and silly ideas and puts up with me when I am in my more unappealing moods (note: unappealing moods encompass highs and lows; being manic can be just as irritating as being a Debbie Downer).

My second outlet is my sessions with Dr. I.F. The only downside is that I always end up going to see her when I feel super, and she says, "How are you doing?" and I say, exuberantly and with absolute truth, "I feel dandy!" and then 10 minutes later I dance out of her office and on my way home local wildlife and I perform a jolly musical in the the streets. It always seems to be between sessions that I find myself bursting into tears in the shower or eating an entire crack pie, (minus one slice eaten by S.), on my own. And then by the time I get back to her those days are already long past and I am back to feeling good again.

I'd like to note that behaviour (feeling dandy, duets with bluebirds) is not me being unbalanced and manic; before I ever sought help I was a happy kid. Occasionally a sullen teenager, but generally smiley with a sunny outlook on life. So when I get to go back to that, for however short a time, it's fantastic. When I'm in the lows I often feel like I'm in withdrawal from that kind of high on life. That, for me, is normal.

I always hated writing conclusions to anything. Especially essays. It always feels so unncessary because I've said what I need to say, and a conclusion only serves the purpose of wrapping things up nicely. So I typed and then deleted and then tried again to write a conclusion, until I remembered that this isn't an essay and I don't need to write a conclusion if I don't want to.