Last night, in the presence of my ever-trusted counselor, I had to look my husband in the eye and tell him I think I am bipolar. Tears streamed down my face as I watched his eyes race back and forth, seeking some kind of comfort that I worry will now be even harder to find.
It’s been a strange trip, the last few months.
I have always known that I think and feel differently than a lot of people. Every relationship I’ve ever been in has proven that. I have suffered with anxiety and depression as long as I can remember, and I feel things – good and bad – in a BIG way. There’s a song called “Nightminds” by Missy Higgins and it says:
You were blessed by
a different kind of inner view
it’s all magnified.
The highs would make you fly
and the lows make you want to die
Oh my word, do I ever relate to that. So many times I have been told I’m too emotional, or making too big of a deal out of something, but in my head it has always felt justified. It’s never felt out of control. Or, if it’s felt out of control, I’ve always been able to rein myself back in, so I never gave it much thought. I just said, “Okay, I think myself in circles and not everyone does that.. keep some thoughts to myself and I’ll fit in just fine.”
The funny thing is I am so intimately familiar with bipolar disorder because it destroyed my mom’s life while I had a front row seat. I watched her lose job after job, blow through multiple marriages, neglect her parenting duties to sit in her room and smoke pot. There have been suicide attempts and irrational tirades, impulsive life decisions and deep, dark depression. I know what bipolar looks like, and I never fit that specific mold.
Obviously, not everyone’s symptoms manifest in the same way.
Last month, I had a week or so where I was just… ANGRY. Irritable for no real reason, explosively angry and stressed beyond words. I couldn’t sleep for days, just laid in bed thinking everything to death. In speaking with my counselor about it, I told her that I was frustrated with my inability to calm my anger even when I know I’m overreacting. I told her about lashing out at my husband when he was just trying to help, pushing him away and closing myself off because I couldn’t get a handle on what I was feeling. PMS from hell, I joked.
And then she said something that hit me like a punch to the gut: in some people, mania presents in the form of anger and irritability.
I went home that night and started thinking back on the last few times I’d felt that way, and there were some other constants then, too. Lack of sleep, obsessive thinking, increased social anxiety. The pieces all fell into place, and I just knew. I am bipolar.
My husband and I have a very good relationship, and the best thing about it is our ability to openly communicate, even about the messy stuff. We have talked so many times before about my anxiety, about my depression. I’ve told him that sometimes I know I’m being crazy, and I just need him to put a hand on me and help me through those moments, because I always come out the other side.
We have talked about the symptoms of my bipolar, but we have never put a label on it. Last night, saying the word out loud felt like dropping a bomb on our lives together. Sure, nothing has changed – I have been this person for as long as I can remember. He fell in love with this person, he promised his life and his future to this person. But calling myself bipolar put a label on the least desirable parts of my personality, and left me feeling vulnerable and exposed in a way I haven’t felt yet in my marriage.
I guess only time will tell if the label will change things for the better or worse. I am committed to treating myself with care and compassion, following doctor’s orders and allowing transparency with my husband so he can help me stay on top of it. One of the biggest motivating factors in my life has always been my desire to NOT turn out like my mother, and I hope I can learn from her struggles and stick to a treatment plan that works. There is a small voice in the back of my head telling me to cut bait and run so my husband doesn’t have to devote his life to caring for me, but in this moment, I feel capable of staying on top of it, and I have faith that my husband loves me enough to trudge through this with me.
My counselor helped us come up with a plan, a phrase, to try and bring me down when my mind is racing. I have an appointment set with a psychiatrist to get established. Maybe this explains why antidepressants have never truly felt like they help me, despite years of trying just about everything there is on the market. I am not grieving the “normal” life I know I’ll never live. I am anxious to tackle this and relegate it to just a part of me, rather than the all-encompassing challenge it feels like now.
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