Talking about what it is like to suffer from bipolar--suffer, ha. That is a funny word for it. Sincerely, I do have a lot of suffering, but we all suffer. I don't
think us with bipolar are somehow special because of the suffering we endure. Perhaps the way in which we suffer, or the things that others wouldn't find to be suffering
that we would. I mean, to jump from one extreme to another makes it really hard to keep people's interest. That goes for employers, friends, family, romantic relation-
ships; all of the above. IT DOESN'T GET BETTER! It seems to me that the more I am encountering the idea of bipolar the harder my issues are to deal with. I hate that I have to take pills to be able to succeed. That is really painful and embarrassing. Its dependency, just in a different form than when you are counting on a person--you're counting on a pill to pick you up when you are feeling down. I’m sure a lot of people must look at people like myself who are bipolar and wonder what exactly is the difference in the experience itself of being bipolar.
We all have things in our lives that make us distinct from others. Our ways of dealing with life vary greatly. For me, when I am experiencing the highs and lows of this
mood disorder, it's rather difficult to get a bead on what exactly is going on. Sometimes I feel as though the whole world is colluding and conniving against me,
while other times I am convinced that I couldn't be happier or more loved. The times spent in between the two extremes are few and far between. More often than not, I find
myself trying to find ways to get to one of the extremes because those are sometimes the experiences that remind me most that I am alive. A lot of this disease is about experiences and what they mean.
I have, on different occasions interacted with personalities on a tv screen separated by spaces and times that are beyond reasonable reality. Grandiosity comes at the cost
of a clear understanding of reality. Imagine that you thought that every play in a football game you were watching on tv was meant to express some sort of idea directly to you
through the media that you perceived. I know that seems like an out there perspective but I can tell you first had, I know what it feels like to watch TV and start
to get the feeling like the TV is watching me.
Then there are the lows. These are the times when nothing works. No one cares. Nothing seems to matter at all. What is the point of everything if we all just end up
right back where we came from in the end? It is hard not to admit that this is a scary idea of the future, but it is in everybody's future. It's a pretty common idea that
100% is the death rate of any living thing. Death is inevitable and it is a part of our reality that we learn to cope with because there is literally nothing else we mortals
can possibly do. We can try to cheat it, try to control, try to harness its power, but ultimately, in the end, it gets the better of us all.
In my experience, there are many different ways that bipolar can have an effect on a person. One not too often discussed a situation that often happens are times of shopping and spending money in fits and not thinking properly about a budget. That is actually a documented symptom of the disorder. You see, marketing and advertising are often based on emotion and impulses, and it is precisely those things that are accentuated when in the midst of an episode of mania or depression. So, next time your friend or family member starts to spend money unwisely, and they suffer from bipolar, recognize that there is a direct connection between that and their treatment and follow up with them to make sure that they are alright.
It’s nice to know that people, if you are reading this, care enough to listen to someone like me who has the difficult issue of struggling through this type of situation on a regular basis. Sometimes, personally, I can sense a situation of mania or depression approaching and do something to prepare myself for the types of things that I am certain will happen based on prior experience. Some people could probably look at an event of mania and think, “I’ve had times like that--they’re just struggling with responsibility,” or maybe, “why is this person looked at with understanding for things that if I did them, I would be criticized or judged harshly.” Unfortunately, that tends to happen with people who suffer from mental illness. A lot of stigmas exist having to do with the struggles presented by such afflictions. They aren’t completely unwarranted, but they do not need to continue, and what needs to take place is a reclamation of the dignity and integrity of these type of individuals. We are people, too.
Getting on the more personal side and getting to my particular struggle with bipolar first requires a little bit of history. I was born in Rockford, Illinois, though I can’t remember really spending any time there, because we had moved by the time I was two and any of my earliest memories only go back to big events that took place while my family was living in areas around Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Since I was born in a separate town from all of the places that I spent time in my childhood through early adult life, there has been no concept of having a true home that I ever belonged to. The closest I’ve been is when I am in the midst of strong relationships. But there is no place that I can call my home. That is something that has eaten away at me emotionally since I was very small.
As I was growing up, I had sort of a two-fold experience. I was homeschooled, so the manner in which I was socialized, that is to say, shown how to interact with people in social situations, was determined by very limited and specific interactions with a certain group of people. Most of them tended to be Evangelical Judeo-Christians. I grew up around them, and I always liked to be the one to garner attention, so I took extra care to impress upon everyone my manners and poise in social interactions. However, there was always another side to me. A side of me that strove to understand to such great lengths that I often infringed upon--even exhausted, others patience and concern for me.
That is a trait that is very coincidental to bipolar definitions, so there is no doubt that I have struggled with this longer than I have had the diagnosis. As I grew up, I began to seek out situations that challenged my insight and intuition in order to greater grasp the meaning that I found within my social structures and within myself. I have never given up on the goal to know-- Though this seems philosophical and unrelated, I promise, we will get to the crux of the idea here. You see, I am very prone to thinking about things in a very dichotomized manner. There is this way and then there is that way. I’m not one of those people that like to live in the grey area. However, I will slip back and forth from one side to the other, skipping over the center, when the situation calls for it. A sort of social chameleon of sorts. Unfortunately, this makes me very unreliable, even when taking my knowledge of things to more of a level of understanding and utilizing information and data to solve problems or criticize applied conclusions of others.
This type of thing that I do--breaking down and analyzing every little detail, is where it is that the dichotomy breaks down to an individual who lives on a spectrum of dual, or polarized, perspectives. Sometimes they are simultaneous, while other times, they are completely separate from each other, and getting back to the history of this mental handicap in my life, there have been specific moments where this attribute can be carefully deduced from my actions amidst the present circumstances of the time in reference.
One such experience actually took place just about six years ago, after some major changes in our culture had begun to take form. Changes that have led to more social equality and civil rights for all--including the disabled. During the time period of mention, there was a great rift between myself and the most crucial relationships in my life. My parents were getting divorced, my brother was ill and making poor health and social decisions, my older siblings were all very busy with their own situations to be able to lend any assistance, and I found myself caught at a point where I had to fend for myself having already reached the end of the wire and burning the candle at both ends.
Without rest, we often err easily. That happened to me in a profound manner. To say that it was an error is to omit the magnitude and severity of the break from reality that I endured and experienced. I had lost who I was and didn’t know if maybe I was a killer, a thief, a liar, a spy, a fool, an actor, a pawn, a king, or just a man who had become aware of certain afflictions that would come to be a growing part of my experience. Come to find out, eh, I’m just bipolar. What did that even mean?
Here’s where it gets interesting. At the time of my diagnosis, I had never even heard of bipolar. In fact, to my recollection, I truly believed that I was the only person ever to be found to have this problem. Come to find out, there are hundreds of thousands of people that have been diagnosed and millions of people who suffer from issues stemming from situations involving people with bipolar.
So I found out what I was and what I was going to have to deal with for the rest of my life. I was scared, sure. Yet still, I was ready for the challenge. I felt compelled to continue. You see, I am a very peaceful soul, tormented by the reality of life and choice. We all are. I live in the cataclysm of doubt and hope. I refuse to choose a side… yet. As I have said before, I want to know. So, there are two sides to what I am saying. Do I accept the idea that even though I have been given this diagnosis that will affect every aspect of my life from here onward with the audacious auspices of ardent hope? Or do I submit to subsisting beneath the shallow and pale definitions that would confine me to, well, to put it simply, a patient with a diagnosis?
To be honest, I think I am still living in just that moment. Wanting to know. Not wanting to choose. Sharing hope and doubt like two roommates who refuse to be the one to leave, though their cohabitation may have become truly unliveable-- I think I just made that word.
To sum up, briefly, all of this takes place in my mind. To invite anyone into my way of thinking takes a willingness to stretch definitions and standards of thought and language, philosophy and medicine, doubt and faith in order to better grasp the simplest of questions of reality in the most truly poignant sense; fully. I guess, then, what I think bipolar is… it’s a journey that takes you from one end of the psyche and the surreal to the other, and sometimes you return, and sometimes you never are the same. It’s the trek that matters. It is a road that few tend to travel and survive, but not ever will I give up on taking the next step… even if they are that of a baby.
