Excuse

by kieryn graham

Created on: October 30, 2008

Right there, big and bold, top of my file: "Moderate to severe bi-polar disorder with depression dominant." First thing a doctor or nurse learns about me, probably even before my name. "Bi-polar. Depression dominant."

That's my excuse. It's by far my favorite.

I consider my diagnosis the moral equivalent of begging your pardon when I pass gas; the polite equivalent of asking your permission to pass through a crowded space, the personal equivalent of blushing when I confess, "I'm so sorry; I have forgotten your name."

You see, I know better than anyone that, although my bi-polar accounts for just about everything, it absolves absolutely nothing.

Sooner or later, every girl's body betrays her. The mechanisms of self-control, the fiercely disciplined attitude about mind over matter, the "suck-it-up and deal with it" reaches the red-line long before my psychic engine tops-out. Bi-polar disorder tends to compromise the mechanisms of self-control; the mind and flesh feel more than willing, but the synaptic connection is broken. I have just enough ABS-brake to stop myself before I do something stupid, compulsive, or irresponsible. I have grown really really skilled at existential freeze-tag.

"Bi-polar . Depression dominant": Of course, it's my favorite excuse. If I worked it and milked it and exploited it and made it pathetic, I could use my diagnosis to justify, rationalize, account for, or mitigate just about anything. Of course, that magical-medical vaguely biochemical and very heavily meaning-laden diagnosis definitely counts as my favorite excuse. By no means do I believe, however, the diagnosis qualifies me for special consideration, unusual dispensation, or preferred parking.

My diagnosis does not double as a "Get Out of Jail Free" card. It's a biochemical disorder, not a license for lunacy.

"Bi-polar. Depression dominant" does NOT relieve me of responsibility for my choices and actions; I still accept full responsibility for all of their consequences.

In nearly 90% of cases, bi-polar disorder corresponds either with giftedness or exceptional creativity; and many researchers believe the so-called "disorder" actually adapts creative people to the demands of their work.

It's my job to explore the frontiers of human consciousness, to illuminate the darkest places in the human condition, to let my imagination guide me into remote locations most people dare not tread. So, yeah, I use my bi-polar to excuse my marathon writing sessions, those days and nights when I can produce 25,000 readworthy, printworthy, respectable and even sometimes on-the-cusp-of- "literary" words. It's not inspiration; it doesn't meet the criteria for "intense" or "driven." It's Compulsion, capital "C"gotta do it!pure and simple. When I put enough of those days and nights together, eventually I'll get "those magic 300,000 words that will cheat death," as Thomas Wolfe described Look Homeward, Angel.

My bi-polar "imbalance" puts me in some pretty distinguished company: Poe had it, and Mark Twain had a severe case of it; the British Poet Laureate Wordsworth not only served as the textbook example of it, but his poetic autobiography could be the textbook for it. If I eventually gain some distinction as a writer, I doubt that it will come in spite of my biochemical imbalance. I very strongly suspect I will earn some distinction because of my problems with serotonin re-uptake and a bunch of other endocrinology I'm too busy surviving really to understand

I use my bi-polar disorder to excuse my need to swim every day. That's rightnot wish or desire, but absolute need. Ask yourself, just hypothetically: Would Michael Phelps own all those gold ornaments if he did not have ADD? Same biochemistry. Same mandate. Just like I gotta write, I gotta swim. They built-in those features at the factory, and if I don't use em, I'll invalidate my factory-certified warranty. Manic, I need to swim and write away all that excess energy, keeping myself not only fit but also fit for human companionship. Depressed, I need to get moving, or I will become a statue of myself, a fixed and frozen figure permanently mounted in my office chair. Beyond catatonicossified. Little kids will walk by and rub my belly for good luck. Not the way I would choose to become a landmark, thank you very much.

"Moderate to severe bi-polar disorder with depression dominant," beats all the other excuses by about seven car-lengths in second gear. It dominates.

And it explains.

My diagnosis serves as my most useful tool for analyzing my own behavior. "Please excuse my uncontrollable weeping," I plead for your indulgence. "I conscientiously have examined my entire life, finding absolutely nothing wrong and a lot that's good, but I keep crying anyway. It's biochemical, but I still need a Kleenex, please." I'm not defiant by nature; but, sometimes, my moods defy me. When the moods contradict my circumstances, I take time-out and examine: what's going on? I inquire relentlessly. When it all defies rational explanation, I know it's biochemical. Deal with it; turn the page; move on. No one understands better than I how the rules don't change according to my moodsup, down, or in-between, a foul ball is still a foul ball. I get it. You, however, must "get it" that one day I'll laugh and the next day I'll cry, and both days I will detest hitting the ball outside the lines. In the same way the rules don't change according to my moods, neither does my character. Laughing or weeping, I still have integrity.

And it remains a source of infinite wonder.

Manic beyond all description, I once devoted forty uninterrupted hours to preparation of a proposal for a prestigious grant. Asked, "My God, how did you do it?" I shrugged. The time had felt like a couple of hours in my little world, and I knew the work had to be doneprecisely and well, it had to be done. We won the competition, and got the big bucks; that part truly amazed me. Manic beyond all comprehension, when the main drain line in my household plumbing recently backed-up, spewing nastiness all over the zip code, I tore into it like a wild woman. I fired-up my mapp-gas burner, broke free the clean-out, and snaked in there like I was Joe the Plumber himself. When, after half a century of everyday use, the pipe-fittings disintegrated under pressure of my girly-pink pipe wrench, I replaced all the fittings exactly according to codedidn't even chip a nail. If it were easy, boys would do it.

Of course, I did all that stuff. I have bi-polar disorder.

My diagnosis does not define me, nor does it limit me, nor does it entitle me to special consideration, a blue parking permit, or any other privileges. I also have two X-chromosomes, a long-lost Native American ancestor, curly blonde hair, and a natural instinct for cooking. Just like my bi-polar disorder, all those qualities probably lurk somewhere on the genome, contributing to the adorable character I have become. No single quality ever could define me, and none of them ever got me moved to the front of the line or instantly forgiven for a colossal screw-up.

Just like a diabetic or a person with a thyroid condition, I must live with and take medication for my biochemical imbalance for the rest of my life. What's your excuse?

Bipolar disorder: Illness or excuse?

"Moderate to severe bi-polar disorder with depression dominant"says it right there, big and bold, in my medical file. First thing a doctor or nurse learns about me, probably even before my name. "Bi-polar. Depression dominant."

That's my excuse. It's by far my favorite.

I consider my diagnosis the moral equivalent of begging your pardon when I pass gas; the polite equivalent of asking your permission to pass through a crowded space, the personal equivalent of blushing when I confess, "I'm so sorry; I have forgotten your name."

You see, I know better than anyone that, although my bi-polar accounts for just about everything, it absolves absolutely nothing.

Sooner or later, every girl's body betrays her. The mechanisms of self-control, the fiercely disciplined attitude about mind over matter, the "suck-it-up and deal with it" reaches the red-line long before my psychic engine tops-out. Bi-polar disorder tends to compromise the mechanisms of self-control; the mind and flesh feel more than willing, but the synaptic connection is broken. I have just enough ABS-brake to stop myself before I do something stupid, compulsive, or irresponsible. I have grown really really skilled at existential freeze-tag.

"Bi-polar . Depression dominant": Of course, it's my favorite excuse. If I worked it and milked it and exploited it and made it pathetic, I could use my diagnosis to justify, rationalize, account for, or mitigate just about anything. Of course, that magical-medical vaguely biochemical and very heavily meaning-laden diagnosis definitely counts as my favorite excuse. By no means do I believe, however, the diagnosis qualifies me for special consideration, unusual dispensation, or preferred parking.

My diagnosis does not double as a "Get Out of Jail Free" card. It's a biochemical disorder, not a license for lunacy.

"Bi-polar. Depression dominant" does NOT relieve me of responsibility for my choices and actions; I still accept full responsibility for all of their consequences.

In nearly 90% of cases, bi-polar disorder corresponds either with giftedness or exceptional creativity; and many researchers believe the so-called "disorder" actually adapts creative people to the demands of their work.

It's my job to explore the frontiers of human consciousness, to illuminate the darkest places in the human condition, to let my imagination guide me into remote locations most people dare not tread. So, yeah, I use my bi-polar to excuse my marathon writing sessions, those days and nights when I can produce 25,000 readworthy, printworthy, respectable and even sometimes on-the-cusp-of- "literary" words. It's not inspiration; it doesn't meet the criteria for "intense" or "driven." It's Compulsion, capital "C"gotta do it!pure and simple. When I put enough of those days and nights together, eventually I'll get "those magic 300,000 words that will cheat death," as Thomas Wolfe described Look Homeward, Angel.

My bi-polar "imbalance" puts me in some pretty distinguished company: Poe had it, and Mark Twain had a severe case of it; the British Poet Laureate Wordsworth not only served as the textbook example of it, but his poetic autobiography could be the textbook for it. If I eventually gain some distinction as a writer, I doubt that it will come in spite of my biochemical imbalance. I very strongly suspect I will earn some distinction because of my problems with serotonin re-uptake and a bunch of other endocrinology I'm too busy surviving really to understand

I use my bi-polar disorder to excuse my need to swim every day. That's rightnot wish or desire, but absolute need. Ask yourself, just hypothetically: Would Michael Phelps own all those gold ornaments if he did not have ADD? Same biochemistry. Same mandate. Just like I gotta write, I gotta swim. They built-in those features at the factory, and if I don't use em, I'll invalidate my factory-certified warranty. Manic, I need to swim and write away all that excess energy, keeping myself not only fit but also fit for human companionship. Depressed, I need to get moving, or I will become a statue of myself, a fixed and frozen figure permanently mounted in my office chair. Beyond catatonicossified. Little kids will walk by and rub my belly for good luck. Not the way I would choose to become a landmark, thank you very much.

"Moderate to severe bi-polar disorder with depression dominant," beats all the other excuses by about seven car-lengths in second gear. It dominates.

And it explains.

My diagnosis serves as my most useful tool for analyzing my own behavior. "Please excuse my uncontrollable weeping," I plead for your indulgence. "I conscientiously have examined my entire life, finding absolutely nothing wrong and a lot that's good, but I keep crying anyway. It's biochemical, but I still need a Kleenex, please." I'm not defiant by nature; but, sometimes, my moods defy me. When the moods contradict my circumstances, I take time-out and examine: what's going on? I inquire relentlessly. When it all defies rational explanation, I know it's biochemical. Deal with it; turn the page; move on. No one understands better than I how the rules don't change according to my moodsup, down, or in-between, a foul ball is still a foul ball. I get it. You, however, must "get it" that one day I'll laugh and the next day I'll cry, and both days I will detest hitting the ball outside the lines. In the same way the rules don't change according to my moods, neither does my character. Laughing or weeping, I still have integrity.

And it remains a source of infinite wonder.

Manic beyond all description, I once devoted forty uninterrupted hours to preparation of a proposal for a prestigious grant. Asked, "My God, how did you do it?" I shrugged. The time had felt like a couple of hours in my little world, and I knew the work had to be doneprecisely and well, it had to be done. We won the competition, and got the big bucks; that part truly amazed me. Manic beyond all comprehension, when the main drain line in my household plumbing recently backed-up, spewing nastiness all over the zip code, I tore into it like a wild woman. I fired-up my mapp-gas burner, broke free the clean-out, and snaked in there like I was Joe the Plumber himself. When, after half a century of everyday use, the pipe-fittings disintegrated under pressure of my girly-pink pipe wrench, I replaced all the fittings exactly according to codedidn't even chip a nail. If it were easy, boys would do it.

Of course, I did all that stuff. I have bi-polar disorder.

My diagnosis does not define me, nor does it limit me, nor does it entitle me to special consideration, a blue parking permit, or any other privileges. I also have two X-chromosomes, a long-lost Native American ancestor, curly blonde hair, and a natural instinct for cooking. Just like my bi-polar disorder, all those qualities probably lurk somewhere on the genome, contributing to the adorable character I have become. No single quality ever could define me, and none of them ever got me moved to the front of the line or instantly forgiven for a colossal screw-up.

Just like a diabetic or a person with a thyroid condition, I must live with and take medication for my biochemical imbalance for the rest of my life. What's your excuse?

Learn more about this author, kieryn graham.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.