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.