In August, I had some sort of panic attack, irate woman, ptsd episode that ended in me getting diagnosed bipolar. Personally, I think if bipolar is a real disease, it is grossy overdiagnosed. During my first stint in the hospital for my new bipolar, which I apparently had a severe case of most of my life, I met four other patients newly diagnosed with the bipolar. The first was a military vet with ptsd, but he felt like the diagnosis helped; he kept calling it a missing peice he needed. Next, I met an elderly, anerexic, agorophobic woman. They messed with her meds constantly which distressed her and her husband to great depths. I made friends with a new bipolar man who was a distance runner and workaholic. Work had sent him there since he wasn’t sleeping enough. His manic behaviour was charming and adorable to me. The last was the most beautiful suicidal, herion addict. My diagnosis should really have been irritated bitch.
I’m sure for some people bipolar makes a lot of sense. Maybe the cycling is hormonal changes. Maybe the programs and meds help tons of people. I have tried as hard as I could to get treated for my ptsd and be properly evaluted for bipolar. I do not believe on any level I have this mental illness. I do have a huge (uncontrollable at times) personality though. So, now it is on my chart, I have to accept I can’t shake this diagnosis. Now, I intend to be the poster child of an amazing bipolar mother. Labels don’t have to mean shit & I won’t be contained.