My breath is getting heavier and sharper in my throat. It’s my anniversary today. I don’t know what I’ve really accomplished since June 4th, 2019, but I think I'm feeling okay, which is really good considering the state of the world right now.
A year ago I was sitting in the small office of my now psychiatrist. It was only 20 minutes into my second session when she stopped asking questions and diagnosed my bipolar disorder. I had seen it coming, I’d been preparing for it for just over six months; ever since my psychologist of 4.5 years told me she believed I was manic depressive and needed me to seek out additional help.
I saw it coming. I had been preparing for it, but it hit me like a runaway freight train anyway and then I cried. I realised my secret hope of escaping fate had just died.
In my quieter moments I still feel that way. I still feel sad, and burdened with something I can’t handle, that I don’t feel comfortable wearing, let alone people seeing.
I loved writing here, not for you (assuming someone is reading this), but for myself and the clarity it has previously helped me find. But I abandoned this safe space and hid away for two reasons. The first is that I wanted to take the time to learn about this disorder. The second is I struggled with the words. I didn’t know how to put this admission into words, but here it is: I am have bipolar.
I dream of being comfortable with this disease and the label someday, but at the moment that still feels far beyond me. I lack the words and ability to communicate what ‘this’ is for me. I have spoken a lot about my depression, but never about my joy, how sometimes it goes too far, and how the rapid erratic oscillating between the two was exhausting, frustrating and exhilarating.
So despite this being the most uncomfortable post I’ve been avoiding to write, I am writing it here, on this digital paper because today is my paper anniversary and I want to be able to write again.