My family loves me to death.
My family loves me to death. They tell me so at the end of every phone call.
But they don’t trust me.
Since my diagnosis, my identity now boils down to the sum of two words. If I become, justifiably, angry over a facetious remark made, by a family member, about my history of eating disorders, I’m “being bipolar.” If I can’t quite contain my excitement over my favorite artist coming out of his reclusion to engage in a more-than-generational hip-hop beef, I’m “becoming manic.”
It’s not my prerogative to educate my family on the finer points of my illness. But, it is my responsibility to ensure I’m doing everything I can not to fall back into the ol’ bipolar “cycle.”
Cycling is a funny thing. Not laugh-out-loud, choke-on-your-drink, funny. More funny like watching yourself, helplessly, vacillate from a deluge of unfettered euphoria and indomitable, unsubstantiated confidence into “the sky is falling” but there’s no Chicken Little to drag you out from under your duvet funny. Oh, sweet snuggly duvet, and Netflix, and dark chocolate—my last refuge.
I used to take pride in my cycling. Maybe pride isn’t the right word. Yes, bipolar is a lifelong condition, and yes—to some extent—it represents an inextricable part of who I am; but, I used to view bipolar as the most interesting part of myself—a superpower that came with its fair share of drawbacks (notably, the depressive fallout tailing the divine blessing of mania), but a superpower nonetheless. I felt overjoyed every time I felt a (hypo)manic episode coming on; in fact, I chased the feeling. Who was I not to welcome graciously the kiss of God?
I loved the unbridled creativity, the boundless energy, the beauty in the madness. Let the good times roll… until they don’t. Until I empty my bank account pursuing a dream I’ve barely conceived yet believe, so fervently, aligns perfectly with “my destiny.” Until I go scorched earth on cherished relationships over the slightest disagreement. Until I forgo my hard-earned sobriety for a bender of drugs, alcohol, and cheap sex with perfect strangers. Until the rush of creativity behind my skull and the electric current beneath my skin become far too much to handle, and I weep and gnash my teeth as I burst at the seams.
And then the world flattens, and falls away.
And, I realize—to my abject dismay—that said world is better off without my being in it.
I understand why my family fears my illness. I only wish they didn’t fear *me.*
I can’t control their feelings. But I can control what’s in my, well, control. I can take my meds. I can go to therapy. And, eventually, maybe I’ll earn back that trust. Only time will tell.
Until then, I’ll be doing all in my power to get there—for them *and* for myself.
