A few days ago, I was told I have bipolar disorder.
This was not that surprising. I’ve suspected as much since I was a teenager, but now, at almost thirty, someone finally listened enough to confirm it.
I am ecstatic.
I woke up yesterday and thought, “I am not just chronically weak or incapable. I am not just adorably, or not so adorably, eccentric. My brain fights me everyday and tells me terrible things, and sometimes shows them to me as well.”
My next thought was, “And I’m still here, so fuck my brain. I rule.”
Despite my long-held suspicions, it’s getting this diagnosis that has really made me get serious about taking steps toward getting healthier both mentally and physically. Changing my diet for better blood sugar both for the effects it can have on cognition, and because in case I do opt for medication (which I’m currently on the fence about), common side effects include weight gain and blood sugar raging out of control.
I also need to get (and stay) on a routine. Luckily, being incredibly boring comes very naturally to me, and now I have a diagnosis I have a doctor’s note to flash whenever someone wants me to be spontaneous and/or socialize on short notice. So I’ve created a lifeline of timers, to-do lists, and alarms. Daily, weekly, monthly, yearly, I’m getting it all scheduled now.
I have more tests and evaluations, both mental and physical, to go through in the next few months, and truth told, I’m excited about it. There’s a chance I’ll be dealing with bipolar the rest of my life. There’s a chance that I might have an underlying medical condition that’s causing it, or at least exacerbating it. Either way, there’s a good chance I’ll be on medication the rest of my life. But I’m fine with that.
Because nothing feels better right now than to finally be able to say, “It’s not just me.”