It’s been 3.5 years since my diagnosis.
My original reaction was *TRIGGER WARNING* a suicide attempt *END TRIGGER*. Having been diagnosed with major depression in 2004, I took years to learn what it meant, how I can fight it, what I can do about it. Depression became a part of my personality; I tamed it, and I was victorious. Or so I felt. The six months before diagnosis were my best period ever – I thought. It was blazing hypomania, and everything about it felt perfect. I thought: this is the real me, finally. Free of fear, free of tiredness, full of ideas. I spent money because I knew Gods would make sure I get more of it, and soon. I tried to start two businesses at once (graphic design and coaching, and I knew nothing about the latter but people loved confiding in me so I felt qualified enough), while juggling a part-time job as a bartender AND learning what my dream career was. I slept 3-4 hours per night, overexcited with all the ideas and power I seemed to have. I have never been more creative, seductive, simply happy.
And then a mixed episode hit and I was majorly confused. I thought my antidepressants stopped working for some reason. I went to a psychiatrist demanding a fix. Instead I got a new diagnosis, and was told that the period when I felt so good was actually an illusion. It was all fake, chemistry malfunctioning in my brain. I was absolutely heartbroken. It wasn’t only that I had to learn living with a new word in my medical dossier; it was the fact that while depression can be cured and not return, the same is not true with bipolar.
Oddly enough, one of the symptoms of both unipolar depression and all phases of bipolar disorder is the idea we aren’t sick.
In depressed phase, it is associated with lowered self-esteem. Together with all other negative thoughts comes the idea that we are just lazy, and we’re just pretending, and we don’t have depression at all. (This is greatly aided by having relatives or friends who provide us with helpful phrases along the lines of “why don’t you just pull yourself by the bootstraps” and “you know, you could just try not to be depressed”.) And so we find ourselves on the floor, curled into fetal position, thinking we’re just imagining all this and in fact don’t have any reason to feel bad, so why don’t we get up and do something. Then we don’t get up and we don’t do something, because depression won’t let us move.
Does this scenario sound familiar?
You are walking around a shopping centre, or browsing Etsy, or passing by an Apple Store. Place doesn’t matter. You look around, somewhat bored, when suddenly your eyes focus on something: THIS. IS. IT. Suddenly you can not imagine your life without Item X. How could you have survived until 30 seconds ago without owning Item X? Suddenly it feels like your entire brain has turned into one enormous WANT. You NEED Item X. For… reasons. It doesn’t really matter, why would anything matter when you WANT it so much you could suddenly turn into a 3-year-old and throw a crying strop complete with kicking the floor and hitting it with fists?
You leave the store with Item X in your bag. You already start feeling a little less excited about it, and you haven’t unpacked it yet, but you convince yourself that now your life is complete, after all you wanted it so badly, how could it be anything but the most important key thing that will unlock potential amazingness hiding right inside the box? You get home, not quickly enough, and unwrap the box, and take Item X out, and hold it and kiss it and call it George, and you fully intend to spend the rest of your life enjoying it non-stop.