A point of reference
I have a new diagnosis, and one that I struggled with when it was first dumped on me. It's a loaded term. It calls to mind "crazy" people, standing on building ledges or writing on walls. But there's more to it than that; it's layered, and I am firmly entrenched in the milder of the layers. Bipolar 2.
In April I had what's called a mixed episode, a combination of a depressive episode and hypomania. Hypomania is different from mania in severity and scope. My misconceptions about it derived from my limited understanding of mania. I can fly, the term said to me. I am the most important person in the world. I am wildly euphoric. Instead, for me, being of the HYPO variety, it meant agitation, irritability, panic, crippling anxiety, fear. I became preoccupied with death and terrified that it was imminent for me, my loved ones. I became obsessed with the idea that we're not providing well enough for our children, that our money situation is insurmountable, that Alex's teeth aren't coming in straight and we'll never be able to afford braces. Everything. Everything was terrifying. I was in a state of constant, unrelenting fear, and many times a day it ramped up into actual panic, leaving me sweating, heart racing, stomach churning, fearing that I was going to lose control and do something stupid just to stop the terror.
At the same time, mixed in there (hence the "mixed episode" label), there was a crushing depression. I lost the ability, the energy, or the desire to do the most basic things. Get up in the morning. Get the kids' breakfast. Focus on work. Talk. Again, everything.
April sucked.
St.T pronounced me "in crisis" and sent me to my med doctor for help. There was talk of hospitalization, which fortunately never became more than talk. The combination of medication and intensive therapy helped. Slowly, slowly, I came out of it. For a while I felt the feelings under the surface, ready to break through the cracks and undo me at any moment. But they didn't. I kept taking my medication, and they didn't.
By late April/early May, I was okay again. I could eat, I could work, I could enjoy my kids and the little things in life that I'd lost temporarily. Every waking moment was not about death and dying, or failure, or loss.
So I'm convinced now. The diagnosis is right, and I'm okay with it. I am firmly on board with the label, the treatment, the understanding that it might happen again but that it might not, and the hope that if it does I'll be able to remember that I found normal again.
This will serve as my reminder.
In April I had what's called a mixed episode, a combination of a depressive episode and hypomania. Hypomania is different from mania in severity and scope. My misconceptions about it derived from my limited understanding of mania. I can fly, the term said to me. I am the most important person in the world. I am wildly euphoric. Instead, for me, being of the HYPO variety, it meant agitation, irritability, panic, crippling anxiety, fear. I became preoccupied with death and terrified that it was imminent for me, my loved ones. I became obsessed with the idea that we're not providing well enough for our children, that our money situation is insurmountable, that Alex's teeth aren't coming in straight and we'll never be able to afford braces. Everything. Everything was terrifying. I was in a state of constant, unrelenting fear, and many times a day it ramped up into actual panic, leaving me sweating, heart racing, stomach churning, fearing that I was going to lose control and do something stupid just to stop the terror.
At the same time, mixed in there (hence the "mixed episode" label), there was a crushing depression. I lost the ability, the energy, or the desire to do the most basic things. Get up in the morning. Get the kids' breakfast. Focus on work. Talk. Again, everything.
April sucked.
St.T pronounced me "in crisis" and sent me to my med doctor for help. There was talk of hospitalization, which fortunately never became more than talk. The combination of medication and intensive therapy helped. Slowly, slowly, I came out of it. For a while I felt the feelings under the surface, ready to break through the cracks and undo me at any moment. But they didn't. I kept taking my medication, and they didn't.
By late April/early May, I was okay again. I could eat, I could work, I could enjoy my kids and the little things in life that I'd lost temporarily. Every waking moment was not about death and dying, or failure, or loss.
So I'm convinced now. The diagnosis is right, and I'm okay with it. I am firmly on board with the label, the treatment, the understanding that it might happen again but that it might not, and the hope that if it does I'll be able to remember that I found normal again.
This will serve as my reminder.