A friend who also “suffers” with Bipolar Disorder is tanking. Trouble with school, personal care, family, and so many opportunities for which she has worked. I know she will pull herself back up. She’s had to do it before. Most of us with this “disorder” do. But I’m infuriated and outraged. I hate Bipolar Disorder.
The hell of it is that tomorrow night, at this same time of 11:40 p.m., I could sit here and write that having had the disorder makes me a fighter, able to achieve, and offers blessings of unparalleled creativity and intelligence. Just give me time, and I’ll believe that again. I’ll “feel” it. It’s a lie. It’s all a big lie.
Bipolar is a liar. I could never articulate it better. Bipolar. Is. A Liar.
Speaking of my friend again, she’s quite successful and brilliant, but she doesn’t know that right now. I know that. I like to toss a saying around that I once found funny and have hung onto, and it’s a smart idea as well. “Surround yourself with people smarter than you.” That’s definitely the case with this friend, though she is leaps and bounds more than that. She’s warm, nurturing, caring and loving. But she falls down. We fall down. Sometimes it takes her a while to get back up, and sometimes sooner rather than later. But more often than not, the depression strike and anxiety spike, and we spiral down, we feel a tremendous hit.
A hit on self-confidence. A hit on beliefs. A hit on our physical selves and immune system. A hit on the love and energy we can give your friends and family. A hit on how you can care for your basic needs.
There are days, when we have to count – the brushing of teeth, the journey of walking from the bedroom to the living room, the task of grabbing some small something to eat, and possibly, though often not, the basic grooming and taking of a shower – count all of that, as a win for the day. There is no way to express what it takes in our minds to achieve even that some days. I wish I could describe it, but every minute seems like an entire day. Time. Moves. So. Slowly.
A brain screaming at you to move, to not move, to cry, to try, to smile, to die.
And next week, possibly a month, the frenzied energy and lack of control of mania visits. But if you don’t like it, hold on. It will change.
A happy medium, doctors and therapists call it stability, but honestly, that’s bullshit. In my experience, we aim for that, and if we get it for a week or two, it’s amazing.
My friend will get back up. I get back up. Then it’s wash, rinse, repeat. It goes on and on. Spin cycle. Roller coasters. Whatever.
I understand why people give up and actively commit suicide or passively allow it. The fact that I know this will be my existence until the day I die is exhausting and horrifying. But I’m expected to be a good mother, wife, daughter, friend, animal lover, wanna-be volunteer, blah, blah. I understand the overwhelming point people get to when they say, I cannot take this fight another day. I cannot. It just has to stop. This ingenious, lying disease has beaten me, and I’m fine with that, just want it gone.
I want to be gone. Knowing it will never stop. I will never be free.
But, there are things that still stop me, thank goodness. The roles I mentioned above, because I do love being those things when I can do so. And friends who know this torturing bastard disorder with hands outreached to hold mine, and me hold theirs, when we are feeling overburdened and unable to move.
That’s how I know my friend will be okay, even though she is beyond any type of description of hurting that I can relay, because we’ll help each other get up, and move, and survive
…even if sometimes that’s not at all what we want.