I've only known for a month, but I can trace the behavior back to my early twenties. Perhaps even earlier if I really cared to dig. My diagnosis like a surgical scar that's still healing— not yet mended but no longer weeping. Some days it feels like it came twenty-years too late.
I like to tell myself that I am not ashamed of it, but I think I'm lying to myself. I don't hide it from the guests of my practice. I would never deny it if I was asked. I openly share it when it's relevant, so perhaps that's enough. Maybe that's evidence of self-love still growing, of my bravery. Yet, I am afraid. I don't want my diagnosis to be known among those of which I still share pain. "But these are the people who should know," I rationalize. And I remind myself that this is only an invitation for deeper healing or closure. But what it feels like is a trap door, and the moment I step on my mark and say my lines, the floor will fall out from under my feet, the dark belly of stage swallowing me whole.
Why do I feel so vulnerable about this? Having bipolar disorder is not my fault. My behavior or choices did not create this. It is a genetic condition and a trauma symptom. I imagine it wouldn't be entirely too unexpected from the sword wielders in my past, but I am afraid of their judgment. I expect the worst in them, as if the only person who could have possibly grown in all this time is me.
I want my diagnosis to explain why I always took things too far, or why I just couldn't ever quite hold myself together. I want people to understand that the pictures they hold of me could be false images, and to consider that perhaps they remember the actress on stage and lost sight of the soul trapped inside.
I don't want redemption, and I don't need forgiveness. I want neutrality. Compassion. I want everyone to understand that I am weather in a bottle. I am thunderstorms and hail, rain, and sunshine. I am hurricanes. Tornados. Perfectly silent falling snow. I am all of these things, and they're all happening at the exact same time.
My life used to be so painful, and I know that pain did not come without consequence to them. If I am sorry about anything in my life, I am sorry for that. I am sorry for the intrusions and how my misjudgment that affected others who gave me their trust, their friendship, and offered me a place in their hearts and lives.
Now, my bipolar affects me in less abrasive ways. I no longer go into the extreme highs of hypermania. Instead, I experience hypomania, these wonderful little pockets of creativity, energy, and inspiration. In my hypomanic moments, my body untwists itself and my shoulders release themselves from my ears. I can breathe. I can laugh. I try to contact everyone who is important to me, checking in and checking on. I just seek a connection. But as all cycles go, the plateau of the hill must eventually descend into the valley, and so the blanket of depression drapes over me again.
My depression makes me feel extremely fatigued. I have to lie down a lot. Some days it's hard for me to even make dinner. Slowly, I begin to pull out of the commitments I created when I felt well. I am tired. Exhausted even. In both cycles, I do not sleep.
Mental health IS physical health.
If I could say anything to anyone in my place, I would want them to know that we are not sick: We are healing. Seeking the diagnosis is seeking the cure. When I have shared my diagnosis with others, many looked at me differently. It wasn't a conscious shift, but I saw the change in them. I do not hold any resentment for that shift. It is not a reflection of me, it is a reflection of misunderstanding and perhaps my biggest motivation for sharing this now. After all, what is there really to be ashamed of? In a way, bipolar disorder is a perfect fit for me. Why should a woman who constantly stands on the threshold between worlds not mirror that in her own mind? Why should I not be a true reflection of nature itself? To be everything all at once? And why shouldn't you?
