Knowing is Half The Battle

I had no idea that my therapist was that strong. I don't think she knew her own bionic power either. But the moment that she confirmed my diagnosis, the weight of a heavy planet was lifted clear off of my shoulders. There was a release, and a lightening that suddenly allowed me to stand upright, and walk with my head held higher than ever before. For several hours afterward, the one notion that displaced every other thought in my mind was "It isn't me."

Now, of course, it was me. The horrible choices I had been making for all those years were mine. The angry outbursts, and the relentless crying jags were my own. It was my arm that had once bared the scars of secret cutting sessions, that I alone had performed. However, in another sense, it wasn't me. It wasn't my fault. I hadn't merely been immature and irresponsible, selfish and self absorbed, or even lazy. It was something so much more important than any of that. It was a true physical, chemical, biological ailment. The people who could never understand me could certainly, and easily, understand my illness. Manic Depression ... Bipolar Disorder.

In the previous decade, it was an idea that seemed to come out of left field, and was often dismissed by most of the experts out in right field. Newly diagnosed sufferers were warily interviewed on the daytime talk circuit. Some were accused of lying or exaggerating their symptoms, looking for attention and sympathy. Some were feared, and seen as being just plain crazy. Some still, were accused of foolish naivety, for falling for some "mind bender's" latest get rich quick scheme. It was a difficult concept to understand at that time. Society was just coming into the psychological age, finally understanding the fragile human mind. People were embracing the idea that mental illness could be successfully treated through medication and therapy, allowing it's victims to live full and fulfilling lives. Despite this new open mindedness, it seemed that people could only embrace the well known, and accepted illnesses, and made little room for new and unknown diagnoses.

That was then. This was a new decade. It was an up and coming disorder, and the mainstream media was just beginning to talk about it with serious interest. Information was abound, and medications were emerging. There was no more shame in having a mental impairment. So, it was with great enthusiasm that I called my friends, and members of my family, to announce the wonderful news. I shared it with my chat room buddies, and joined online support groups to talk about it. I came just shy of shouting it out to the world, from my front porch!

As liberating as it is, knowing isn't the cure. My symptoms didn't suddenly cease. I still had medications to experiment with. There was an undefined number of therapy sessions to come. I still needed to be educated about the illness, and learn how to cope and retrain my patterns of thinking, and feeling. For me, all that was beside the point. The hurdle had been jumped, and I didn't see how the rest of the track could be anything less than smooth sailing.

It's The Not Knowing That Hurts

Since my early pre-teen years, I knew that something wasn't right. I just always thought it was me. I wasn't right. In fact, I was just plain wrong. My hair was wrong, my skin was wrong, my eyes, my nose, the way I walked, talked, laughed, behaved, and felt inside my body. Overall, I was simply the wrong organism to be existing on this planet. I thought that I must've been switched with a human soul at the moment of my cosmic birth.

As I grew, my feelings only intensified, and grew into a deep paranoia. Everywhere I went, I could feel the eyes of strangers watching me, awed and disgusted by this creature with whom they were forced to share the Earth. Every whisper that floated through the air, was about me. Every chuckle, was a private joke at my expense. Family, and the people I called 'friends' were merely tolerating my presence in their lives. And I was certain that someone, somewhere, was constantly plotting to disrupt every attempt I made at normalcy, and were probably even recruiting every other person who did, might, or would someday know me.

The years went on, and I came to accept my fate. I assimilated into society, and at times, I truly felt that some miraculous change had occurred. I dared to dream that I had been occasionally accepted, and could lend myself to the possibility of being included in the beautiful commonality of the human race. Of course, these moments of triumph were punctuated by the inevitable recognition that I was still a 'nothing'. Out of anger and depression, I was often reckless and rebellious. There was heavy experimentation with alcohol, and the dangerous situations that accompanied that behavior. There was sexual promiscuity, and the dangerous situations and predicaments that accompanied that behavior. Although I cannot presume to speak for others, it's reasonable to think that no one understood the whys and whats about me. I was labeled, by the people closest to me, as immature, irresponsible, lazy, selfish, and self absorbed. Gee, what's that old saying about fuel, and a fire?

My only comfort was the wash of calm peace that came when I wished for death. I wrote endless songs and poetry of sweet permanent slumber. I even received commendations for my 'natural talent' and 'skill with language'. Though no one was ever able, or willing, to look into the deep end of my literary pool, through it's unmistakable transparency, and interpret my prose into it's obvious definition: help. Perhaps, I was just not worth their effort. It goes without saying, but I'll reiterate; my life was unbearable, and at that point, I was barely reaching the recognized age of adulthood. The ensuing phases of life brought no alleviation of the pain, and loneliness. I merely developed an exquisite expertise in masking my internal hardships, through two marriages, and motherhood.

After several years, it happened one day, that I suddenly had a realization to the endless cycle I was experiencing. Weeks of abusive internal dialogue, melancholic crying spells, and angry mood swings would melt into weeks of joyous, exhilarated love of life, that generously bestowed upon me the gifts of creativity, energy, and insight, only to revert once again. Finally making the declaration that something was not right with me, I agreed to seek professional advice. After several sessions, and some personality testing, I was diagnosed as Manic Depressive. I was thirty years old, and it was the best year of my life.