The Stigma

I knew what was going on before I walked in the door. At 4am that Tuesday morning I found myself on the line with a crisis centre.  Not necessarily because I wanted to kill myself at that moment, but rather to address out loud the feeling of disconnect I was feeling when it came to my family.

Over the previous 12 months I have found it increasingly difficult to connect with those who are meant to be the closest to me.

The best way I can describe it is that I feel at odds with myself. My rational brain knows that my family means everything to me. My other self can’t stand to stay in one place for very long.  I alternate between the constant need to fly and the part of me that longs for eternal hibernation.

I have had a number of moments, especially over the last 6 months where I’ve felt overwhelmed.  Moments where I’ve lost it completely and admitted that I feel, more and more frequently like I can’t do this. I feel more and more often like everyone would be better off if I either disappeared or simply ceased to exist.

Match that with a growing existentialism and equal illusions of grandeur…. I could see the writing on the proverbial wall.

So the bipolar diagnosis was really nothing more than a formality. This knowledge did not stop me from breaking down as the doctor said the word.

What did this mean? This one is serious! What will people think? What will they say? Does this sentence me to a lifetime of being written off as unstable or insane or worse?  Do I want to share it? And am I prepared to deal with any fallout that may occur if I do decide to talk about my journey?

What does bipolar actually mean for my future? I mean, on one hand it’s relieving to know the direction I should head in. At least now my crazy mood swings make sense… at least now I can identify my behavior and be accountable where applicable.

But do I want to be accountable?

So many questions. So very much uncertainty.

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