Two years have passed since the day I was diagnosed with a serious mental illness. Needless to say, I was devastated and thought life as I knew it was over. But while it took a long time to come to acceptance, a wonderful doctor and an amazing support system have made it possible for me to believe in myself again.
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On my computer desk stands a brightly painted wooden figurine of a toucan, a souvenir of a part of Mexico I've never visited and probably never will. His garish red, green, and pink feathers are reminiscent of a certain tank top I bought a couple of summers ago that I would have laughed at had I been in my right mind at the time. (I don't know where the garment is now; I'm afraid it'll leap out of the closet one night and try to strangle me.)
Yes, it really happened: my psychiatrist gave me the bird. And the colorful critter serves as a good reminder that the illness he's treating me for requires constant vigilance, and that mania is NOT my friend.
It's been a long, hard road to this relative state of wellness. Many AN users who have been around for awhile know something of the process I've been through to wrestle the bipolar beast into submission, and some of them have become part of what I consider to be the most awesome support system on the planet. That support system is the reason I'm still here, the reason I've been able to reclaim a good portion of my life. I would never have learned to believe in myself again without it.
That's not to say that there haven't been losses. I am weary of losing bits and pieces of myself to this illness, and the fact that I'm a lot better than I was doesn't negate the fact that it imposes limits which have been difficult to accept. I didn't want to leave clinical nursing, but with my anxiety and inability to focus, I couldn't hold peoples' lives in my hands anymore. I don't like having to take a fistful of meds twice a day or go to bed by 11 PM every single night, even on the weekends. And I hate it when I have to go to a healthcare facility where they don't know me, and the doctor wants to go over my psych history before he even looks at what I came in for.
But there have been a great many opportunities for growth, too. I used to be a very angry person before therapy and medications; now there are few things worth getting worked up over. Once in awhile the process slips and I start arguing politics, usually on social media; when I do that, it's a good clue that I'm becoming manic and my friends and/or family will call me out on it before I can do too much damage. I've also gotten much better at catching mood episodes in the early stages and being proactive by using my PRNs and/or calling my doctor.
During a recent appointment, I expressed some frustration with the fact that I still have breakthrough episodes; it seems inconceivable to me that one can take as much medication as I do and continue to have symptoms. Actually, I had a meltdown and cursed the unfairness of it all, which wasn't very adult of me, but after two years in his care I'm comfortable enough with him to let it all pretty much hang out.
Fortunately, he has studied me very thoroughly and knows most, if not all, of my little quirks; he also respects me greatly as a nurse, and that puts the therapeutic relationship on something of a higher plane because we speak the same language. Even when I'm acting like a bratty ten-year-old because I want to be FIXED, dammit!
I am still coming to terms with the knowledge that I can't be fixed, although my condition can be managed. As he reminded me yet again, I have an illness that is episodic in nature and will recur from time to time, no matter how strict I am with myself regarding meds, therapy, and sleep. And no matter how hard it is not to beat myself up for it, I didn't ask for this and it's not my fault that I have it.
Those are difficult concepts to grasp when you're fifty-five years old and didn't even know you were sick until you were fifty-three. That was a lot of years to go untreated, but it just goes to prove that with good care and lots of support, anyone can get better.
All of us who live with mental illness have a stranger within: someone we don't like, someone we may not even want to acknowledge exists. But the only way to make peace with this person is to bring her out of the shadows and introduce her in a safe place, like a psychiatrist's office or mental-health clinic. Maybe even at your dinner table.....after all, the chances are pretty good that your family and friends have already met her.
