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Add to FavoritesBi-polar Disorder: A Real Nightmare.
It would be terribly convenient for my severe bi-polar disorder to be only an excuse. My loved ones and myself appreciate an end to this nightmare , but it only ends for brief periods. Most likely, however, this illness is over-diagnosed. I know many people who have this illness and they have very few symptoms or difficulties. I am an extreme case with rapid-cycling and psychotic tendencies.
The disease of bi-polar, also known as manic-depression, is very real and can be very dangerous. Combined with substance abuse, bipolar disorder can also be deadly. I would never wish for any potential victim discover the reality of this disease in any disasterous manner.
My childhood was perfect. I was very loved and nurtured and cared for. No abuses whatsoever. As I approached adolescence, I had trouble with my mind racing. This is a very common symptom of mania. I did not know what was wrong with me and did not know how to communicate it to my parents. I suffered for years and would pound on my head with my knuckles until I was numb so that my brain would slow down. At the age of 15 I discovered alcohol which miraculously slowed my mind. I then began what is called "self-medicating."
Bi -polar disorder is not typically diagnosed during adolescence, but rather during early adulthood. It can also be misdiagnosed with scizophrenia. Since my condition was not addressed during my teenage years I do not know what might have been considered wrong with me then. I only know that my parents, primarily my mother, complained continually about my moodiness and they were often quite worried about me. My moods would rapidly change from happy to sad to angry to violent to suicidal. These changes can occur with me many times in one day or over several days. I never went an entire month without some type of drastic mood change, most of them happening at the snap of a finger that even I could not explain.
I have suffered this illness for approximately 30 years but have only been diagnosed, and medicated intermittently, for ten years. Throughout dozens of medication combination changes and counseling I have had periods of what seemed like an entire healing of my brain chemical balance. Sometimes I seemed healed for months then my medication would stop working or just one out of the combination quit working and me and the doctor would have to start all over. This process usually takes months of misery to straighten out. The moments of feeling "healed" are quite dangerous because the bi-polar patient often feels like they do not need the medication any longer and they stop taking it. Disaster hits me quite quickly when I get in this mindset. Stopping medication for this reason is actually a symptom of bi-polar disorder as is substance abuse.
My drinking, which got out of control when my medications were not right, brought me to Alcoholics Anonymous. The 12 steps and the spirituality I found have benefitted me far more than all of my counseling as long as I am consistent. My doctors, counselors and family have insisted on my attendance and participation in the program. When my medications are cooperating with my system correctly I am able to stay sober. I have no need to drink. When I get ill, staying sober is quite a struggle. Close contact with a very understanding sponsor and consistent attendance with meetings and fellowship helps me to stay sober despite my illness, but if I drift away I surely drink.
Each bi-polar person's illness is very individual. Personally, I do not often suffer deep depression because I am a rapid cycler. I get into depression for a few days at most before I am again manic and either conquering the world or on some new band-wagon. For days I am at my best creativity then in a snap I am cutting my arms and legs and then in the hospital. I should mention that this disease is not about feeling medicated but rather feeling only normal and never medicated. During the chaos of correcting failed medications I often feel numb and I have discovered with myself that I cut to just feel something. Just to feel anything at all. Other characteristica of my illness are that I can be explosive in public for seemingly no reason, I am unable to rationalize at times. Sometimes I cannot differentiate between the true and the false of simple matters, I am very intelligent (as many bi-polars are), my creativity soars and I am a social buttterfly when I am manic, I quit my meds when I think I am well, I laugh and play one second then snap at my loved ones over nothing the next second, the list goes on and on. When I am psychotic I lash out in public and have violent episodes. I have disabling panic attacks during which I get so confused that I cannot figure out how to get out of a store. Yes, Xanax helps with panic attacks as no other medication can because it reacts rapidly in the system, but if I do not catch a panic attack early enough I can't even think to take medication. I have psychotic episodes that make me see that there's a traffic accident ahead of me at 65 miles an hour on the highway that I must avoid and I see blood all over the road. None of it is really there. My latest psychotic episode I do not remember, which happens occasionally and is not the least bit convenient, landed me in jail for four months for attempted second degree murder. I faced up to 21 years in prison. Fortunately my case was dismissed. The fact that I had never been in trouble in my life and no one knew what really happened made the difference. I know now what happen when psychological medication and alcohol are mixed.
Over the years, lithium seems to be the constant in treating my illness. All other medications revolve around the lithium, despite the newer mood stabilizers. Sometimes I am on a couple of mood stabilizers at a time. However, mood stabilizers are famous for causing weight gain and I am quite stubborn about taking those. No, I am not more willing to be well than be overweight, as sick as that is. For me, anti-psychotics do help and actually take care of the psychosis completely when they are working. I personally can only take a small dose of anti-depressants for a short time because they frequently throw me into an uncontrollable mania that results in psychosis. Mania used to be fun and full of shopping and spontaneous vacations and silliness. I once bought five new cars in five months. Needless to say, my crdit is shot. I was stellar in my work and was always promoted quickly. I spent a glorious 14 years in the military and was discharged honorably. I served during Desert Storm. I am told that I have a brilliant business mind and I often help small businesses get back on their feet. Now mania is more often violent and psychotic. I am no longer able to work and make a living because I cannot work consistently, not to mention my frequent lack of people skills. I never have been able to work at one place continually. As soon as I got promoted a few times I'd get bored and move on. The military catered, unknowingly, to my illness when I joined the reserves and only worked part time. Now I am on disability and the best job I can work is helping to manage a club where Alcoholics Anonymous meets. At that club I can always have someone help me out when I cannot function well.
If bipolar disorder were only an excuse I could quickly dismiss it and get on with my life. As my life is, I accpet my plight and actually embrace my personality. My significant other frequently says that there is never a dull moment with me. I have two young adult daughters, one of which displays a milder case of bi-polar disorder than her mother, and I have four grandchildren. I have a close relationship with Jesus, which I do wish were closer, and He is always there for me no matter what. My life is fulfilling despite this terrible illness and I hope to somehow be there for others with the same affliction and to not continually harm those around me. I often get to work with other bi-polars and alcoholics in Alcoholics Anonymous. Working with others and taking my medications are the best things I can do to help myself and those around me.
Learn more about this author, Robin Shane.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.
Excuse
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.
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