Days Alive: 12,142.
Pain Number: 4
Hours Slept: 4
Chicken nuggets eaten: 19 (I dropped one.)
Days Since Diagnosis: 0
I’m not doing great today. I’m not cheerful. I’m not well rested or ecstatic to be alive.
I got a diagnosis today that I hate. Not cancer. I guess I can be glad about that. And it’s likely the answer to the issues I’ve been having since I have been old enough to know I’ve had problems. Finally having a name possible name for the jabberwocky on my back is an interesting sensation.
But I hate it.
I absolutely, fire in my breast, Red Queen screaming “off with her head!” hate it. Even with the words I know, I can’t fully express how angry I am at the diagnosis. I don’t want it. I don’t want that burden of that name, of my experiences with it. I don’t want to fight with myself for forever and a day and a week longer than that.
I want to stamp my foot and demand that the world turn itself right ways round. Or ask that the walls stop closing in on me with frightening speed.
To stop being so vague, I’ll say this: this morning, just before noon, I was diagnosed as bipolar one disorder with mania. Mind you, I’m not shocked as both parents are symptomatic as hell. But, that being said, I absolutely don’t want to be bipolar. Saying it aloud is painful and tastes like failure in my mouth. I completely fell apart in my car afterwards, had to call my spouse and cry for a bit.
I don’t want that label. I get that it may help me find treatment. I get that. And it’s not that I’m rejecting the possibility. I want the symptoms to stop, but I hate that the name matches the symptoms. Hate it. Loathe it. It’s painting the roses red when I wanted them white anyway.
I’ll deal. I’ll turn it around, mentally. But for now, it feels as though I’m stuck down in Wonder-Land long after midnight, with nothing to my name but my brain. And I may have to climb one hand over the next to get back to the Regular World.
Speaking of the regular world: I have to work today! I want to crawl into a cave and never come out. But I can’t. So, I’m going to pick up my new medication, feed the dropped chicken nugget to some passing corvid friends, and go to work because they won’t let me call out to go cry and vomit from anxiety in peace at home. Maybe I’ll even get myself an unsweet tea.
Fare-thee-well, friends, foes, and lovers. I’ll catch you next time.