For someone with bipolar disorder, comfort can be found in some odd and dark places. I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t comforted (in a selfish and devious way even) when being around someone with mine or a similar condition. It makes me feel like, “Ha! Yes! It’s not only me!” I know, I know…but, hey, whatever gets me through the night.
“Magick” is a word I first heard (or read about) in Damien Echols devastating memoir, Life After Death. Echols spent more than 18 years on death row for a crime he did not commit, and his personal journey and soul survival is more than awe inspiring.”
The week started out grand with my computer crashing at just two months old, my car battery completely crapping out (along with a broken terminal), and a missed freelance deadline.
Five years ago, I was 27, which was my golden birthday. I was wild then, wild and rearing to go be a part of any type of ignorant activity. I suffer from bipolar disorder if you guys didn’t know and even though I knew it at the time, I still used it to be the life of the party. I was still embarrassed (to an extent) about my condition, and it was easier to just be the wild one.
It’s not unheard of. Someone with a mental health illness, consciously or not, may believe they’re allowed a free pass at times. This, of course, is false. In no set of circumstances does mental illness allow one to act like a dick.
Over the last year or so, I have been experiencing some semi-serious memory issues and some problems with basic motor skills and coordination. I was able to hide these specific issues from my wife for nearly three months before having to let the cat out of the bag. I was stumbling around and running into walls.
It has been one of “those weeks” to be sure. No, nothing genuinely terrible has occurred. It’s just been one of “those weeks” in the sense that when that phrase is used, all can be sure what is truly meant.
I recently had the luxury of finding an old notebook, one that had been used simply for creative purposes. It was about fifteen years old, but you couldn’t tell by its condition. However, the age of the notebook became more than evident after opening it up. To me, anyway.
I accepted a long time ago that it’s easier to try and get something out of my stress than it is to try and find any alleviation from it. It’s gotten better over time, but I still find myself milking it just to get something out of it. Otherwise, I’m exhausted for no reason, and the madness takes another round.
When I learned, or accepted, my diagnosis (Doctors diagnosed me with bipolar disorder at least three times over nine years before I decided to seek out treatment), I had to learn everything I could about the disorder.
If you follow my blog regularly, don’t worry if I’ve strayed from my personal journey of positive thinking. I haven’t. I’m still wondering if someone’s playing a joke on me. I’m behind the computer as we speak, waiting for someone to jump and shout, “GOTCHA!” Just know I went in with the idea for this post relieved and even a little excited. By the time I left, though, I couldn’t tell if I was baffled, underwhelmed, or downright offended.
Still sticking to a pretty self-care-oriented lifestyle. I haven’t tbeen in the trenches of this new battle too terribly long, so fingers remain crossed.
