So, I have a confession to make. I was crazy before I got pregnant. Not as crazy as I am now, but crazy. My official diagnosis (since my early 20’s, maybe my late teens…I’m a terrible historian) is Bipolar II. Things have gotten MUCH worse since the pregnancy, but I had the diagnosis before.
I never really believed it. I’m still not sure I really believe it, although I probably should, given the evidence. I’ve been “fine” with it for the most part, as in “whatever you need to say to get the insurance to cover my meds,” but I’ve never really believed it.
I mean, I took one pill a day and had a relatively stable life. I took one pill a day and that was it. That was all it took to manage whatever was wrong with me. No big deal. I wasn’t crazy crazy. Just a little unbalanced, no big deal. Nothing I couldn’t manage.
My therapist now says I need to believe it. She says it’s time to accept that I’m powerless over it, that it makes my life unmanageable.
But I’m not ready to admit that. I feel like if I admit it, I am going to give up. If I’m powerless over it, if it’s something I can’t fight, then what’s the point in fighting. It will always be bigger than me. It will always win.
It feels like it is winning now.
My husband says that in the past summer has been a hard time for me, that my symptoms get worse in the summer. But summer is almost over, it’s practically fall. And I still feel like s***. Worse than s*** really.
This isn’t an uplifting post. I don’t really have anything uplifting in me right now. The best that can be said for where I’m at right now is that I’m being real. This is real. This is where I’m at.