Bipolar is defined as manic-depressive illness, a psychiatric condition
characterized by episodes of mania (exaggerated euphoria) alternating
with periods of depression.
I inherited the condition from my father. I am told that at the time
there was no treatment other than spending time in a mental institution.
I had 2 aunts and one cousin that also had the disease. They all killed themselves.
My days used to begin with me trying to convince myself to get out of
bed and go to work. There was a boulder on my chest that I had to lift
just to get to the shower. Once I was at work, I would sit at my desk,
praying that no one would ask the most dreaded of questions. Inevitably
someone would say, " How are you?" I was instantly reduced to a quivering, squalling mass of flesh. If only they hadn't asked.
Bipolar is debilitating.
It requires a daily fight to convince yourself that you are not crazy, to convince those around you that you cannot "just snap out of it", and to find the treatment that works for you. I have found in the last year the recovery I once thought impossible.
Am I Crazy?
I thought I was crazy. I couldn't function like my sisters. I would be fine one minute and in tears the next for no apparent reason. There should be a reason. Right? Sometimes I would just sit in the floor in the bathroom and cry. My family and friends would ask what was wrong and I couldn't tell them. It was nothing and it was everything. When I think back on it, I know they must have felt helpless. I think I dreaded the up moments the most. I would have times when I was in a great...