This month marks five years living with Bipolar Disorder. On one hand, I can’t believe it’s been that long. I can still remember sitting in that physiatrist’s office, smelling that cinnamon candle, and hearing the diagnosis for the first time. On the other hand, I feel like I’ve had Bipolar disorder for a lot longer than that. I’ve been taking time to reflect on these past five years. Life is a lot more complicated than it once was. I’m a different person now. Life has forever been altered. All of that is true. But what else have I learned about myself?
Continue reading “5 Things I’ve Learned about Myself After 5 Years with Bipolar Disorder”
I’ve always had a type A personality, even as a little girl. I liked being the best, being on top of things 100% of the time, and being in complete control. Growing up, this manifested as perfect grades. I slaved over homework in order to have the perfect report card. I was perfectionistic in other ways too. I never wanted to compete in sports because I knew I couldn’t win. If I was bad at sports, why bother trying? I avoided anything I knew I couldn’t completely succeed in. Continue reading “What are you waiting for?”
When I was first diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, I was shocked. It was good to have an answer to why I was feeling the way I was, but I didn’t know how to process the news. I remember sitting in the psychiatrist’s office, stunned into silence, as she began to explain the first steps in my treatment. A part of me was relieved—an answer, finally!—but the rest of me was completely numb to what she was saying. Continue reading “How do we talk about mental illness?”
It’s just a number. It’s just a number.
That’s what I was telling myself yesterday when I was pulling on a pair of jeans in the dressing room. Size doesn’t matter. Who cares if you’re now a bigger size? It’s just a number.
I have to give myself pep-talks whenever I go shopping. When I pull on a pair of pants in my ideal size, I hold my breath, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I’ll fit. When the pants don’t fit, I pull them off and reach for the bigger size, all the while commanding myself not to cry. Continue reading “Do not covet?”
“What can I do?”
That’s a difficult question to answer when you’re depressed. You want to say a magical formula—“do this for me and I’ll feel better”—but there isn’t one. You want to be able to respond positively since you’re grateful for the care that went into that question, but you can’t. You even feel a little guilty that you can’t give a satisfying response.
“What can I do?” is probably the best question my husband can ask me when I’m depressed. It’s unassuming and empathetic. It’s also incredibly frustrating, because sometimes there just isn’t anything he can do. But what else is he supposed to say? I guess I’m glad he asks it, even when I don’t know how to respond.
I was recently asked what depression feels like. I didn’t know how to answer. I told my friend that it it’s a physical feeling, a heaviness—if hopelessness was tactile, that would be it. I didn’t know how else to describe it, except in obscure metaphors that might only make sense to me.
So it’s difficult to answer “what can I do?” when I can’t even articulate what my depression feels like. Usually, I end up answering the question with: “Just pray for me.” Sometimes, that’s the only answer I have. Continue reading “Pray for me”