But, that's not what's on my mind right now. In recent days, I've been trying very hard to say out loud that I'm bipolar. It's something I've rarely said, because when you let people know, it becomes the reason for everything.
"Lou got very upset last night."
"Well, she tends to do that. Don't forget she's bipolar."
"Lou wants a divorce."
"Well, I'm sorry, honey, but you tried. She's sick and that's got to have been very hard on you."
"Hey, have you heard of Lou Jones? She seems really qualified."
"Yeah, and she's fun to work with...but she's a total bipolar."
"Oh. Bummer...ok, who's next?"
Carrie Fisher, bless her, yeah, she was brave and she let everyone know she had the disease, but she was also secure as hell. Yes, she had to concentrate and watch herself so she wouldn't lose her friends or isolate her child, or die, but she didn't need to care outside of that. And that's not totally fair to those of us who weren't born to Debbie Reynolds and later became Princess Leia. We can be brave, but then we better be an author or an acclaimed artist or a working actor or a successful musician or a brilliant mathematician for it to be ok, maybe even a gift.
Bipolars are almost always one of those things. Unless we're struggling, then we're a secret, known as "a little off", but also known as "worth it" if we use wonder woman strength and successfully keep it together enough to not exhaust anyone.
If bipolars had a mark on their forehead—maybe an emoji of Comedy/Tragedy—how many people would want to be our friend? Cruising through life with only a vague memory of hearing the word once or twice, they'd likely say, "Oh...um, that's ok, but thank you!"
And if they befriend you, that's only because they don't know about the Bipolar Bullet Train, or because they love confusion, or have giant balls.
"My psychologist says I'm High Functioning Bipolar." I was so embarrassed to tell my spine surgeon that. Please don't be horrified, I'll fall over. His face went professionally blank.
Upon hearing the word "bipolar" spoken softly and with great trepidation, some have said, "Oh, that's not true. You're not bipolar! You need to exercise! Stretch! Take nature walks."
And how does that feel.
"So, all this time, while I'm banging my head against the tile wall of my shower, and my screams are spiraling up from a pit so deep no one's ever seen it, or when I'm crying until my eyes swell shut or I never feel tired, not for a year and that's an illusion, what's really happening is I'm barely sleeping for a year, and my body is under no illusion, in fact it's dying, and I just can't feel it...
You're saying that all this time...through all this hell I'm talking about...all I needed to do was take a nature walk?!"
"Well, yeah, and stretch."
Carrie Fisher, bless her, could admit to being ill for another 40 years—and I truly wish she could—but her being a poster child for bipolar is barely helpful to the rest of us. We'd lose our jobs and some friends, maybe even family, and most definitely, absolutely, our credibility for all the rest of our days if the public at large found out. We might even become homeless, because if we lose our jobs and insurance, which means meds and therapy, we'll suddenly find ourselves the most popular kids in the encampment, looking forward to death with a vengeance.
No comments:
Post a Comment