Posted January 18, 2016

I was probably born bipolar. I remember watching a movie about a lady who was bipolar and as life went by my moods would fluctuate in a way that reminded me so much of that character. Then in 2012 I experienced the final trigger. Now I can safely say, “I hate being bipolar.”

The manic phases were fun. They still are. The feeling of invincibility is all a teen needs to fuel already raging hormones. The best bit was I never got into trouble and so the concept of consequences did not occur to me. And as a teen, the depressions were moments of serenity as I shut myself in a room for hours, away from everything and everyone and caved into the dull feeling of hopelessness. I learned to find comfort in the deep dark hole.

Now, at 32, with a child, husband, job, commitments, being bipolar is an inconvenience. Being manic has its perks as I ride on the high of being able to accomplish everything, but at what price? At the price of crashing and taking those I love down with me. “Stay on your meds and you’ll be alright,” is what everyone says in their heartwarming efforts to support me. They mean well. I know they care. But the truth is, it’s frustrating and disheartening to think that I need medication to keep me NORMAL. It’s the feeling that I am failing as a human being because I need a pill to keep me normal.

The psychiatrist is consulted. The meds are increased. The therapist is changed. The truth is that I know, as does every bipolar person, that it is not over. I will still crash. I will still slip up. I will always be bipolar.

And I hate me for it.