8/9/2015
I want to run away. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to deal with having Bipolar Disorder, Schizo-Affective Disorder, OCD, Intermittent Explosive Disorder, and the host of other disorders that I have been diagnosed with. Excuuuuuse me... with the exception of Schizo-Affective, it's all under "Bipolar Spectrum Disorder" now.
That's a crock of shit.
The disorders are their own. If a person suffers with OCD that doesn't automatically mean they have Bipolar Disorder. What the hell? I guess the doctors and nurses got tired of having to write ALL the disorders down and just put, "Bipolar Spectrum Disorder," in the blank space now. Lazy asses... every fucking one of them!
As of February 10, 2008 I have been diagnosed with the following:
Bipolar 1 with Ultradarian rapid cycling
Cyclothymia
Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder
Anxiety/Panic Disorder
Dissociative Identity Disorder (aka Multiple Personalities
Disorder)
Generalized Anxiety Disorder
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Agoraphobia
Extreme Arachnophobia
Intermittent Explosive Disorder
Dependent Personality Disorder
Seasonal Affective Disorder
Chronic Insomnia
Chronic Scoliosis
Degenerative Spinal Disease
Restless leg syndrome
Re-occurring Bronchitis
Rheumatoid Arthritis
Osteoarthritis
High Blood Pressure
Osteoporosis
Fibromyalgia
The last time I checked, the diagnoses starting with Chronic Scoliosis and going down on this list is NOT a *mind* thing like everything about above it is, therefore how the fuck would they justify putting that into my diagnoses of "Bipolar Spectrum Disorder?"
The last tdoc (therapist as in talk therapy) I had, when I handed her my "mental resume" told me, "Ah, you have Bipolar Spectrum Disorder, and all this STUFF just falls into that category. Well color me stunned. I just sat there and looked at her quite dumbfounded. That was the first time that I had heard that one. It was like she was saying, "Your disorders are no big deal, they're just part of having Bipolar." Um, no, I don't think so. I could feel the beginning of indignant rage building within me. My temples were already throbbing. But I made it through the Q&A first session with her. I decided that I would give her another chance, of course, I mean, you don't learn jack shit on your first visit. It's all too medically proper and way too short to actually get into anything.
The second time I seen her I was swimming in depression once again, she gave me worksheets to fill out.
The third time I seen her I was running just a little hypomanic, no cause for concern.
The last time I seen her I was full blown manic and so that was the first time SHE had seen me that way and her gut reaction was, "I think you need to stay in the hospital." Um, FUCK NO. So she suggests "a little halfway type of house you go to voluntarily where you can sign up for meetings and stay there if you want," There's another big FUCK NO. We all know what happens when you go into a place like that is SUPPOSED to be "voluntary," now don't we kids? Well, those of us that have gone inpatient know what it usually means.
To anyone reading this, I pray you NEVER have to go inpatient. It's not that they torture you or anything like that, seriously, most of the places actually are in place to help you, but for me at least, the whole inpatient thing has never been good for me. It gets me back to the point to where I can fake being well pretty good... good enough to get out, but yeah, just not a good fit for me anyway. Now I know other people who have been HUGELY SUCCESSFUL from going inpatient. They've had doctors, nurses, and other care givers who were just wonderful and actually helped them. It's just never been my own experience.
Yeah, I hear you out there whispering it... "maybe it wasn't good for you BECAUSE of YOU, Stormy," and you're 100% correct in this assumption. Maybe it was me. Each and every time. Maybe it was me. Yeah, it was probably me. Yeah, it was more than likely me. Now that I really stop to think about it, yes, yes it was DEFINITELY me.
So anyway, I said no to the hospital and no to the "voluntary halfway house." Which, mind you, I suppose I got very lucky because all she would have had to do was to make a phone call and the fuckers would have come to my house and forcibly taken me to the hospital if I would have even gotten out of the building, to my car, and on my way quick enough. More than likely I would have been caught before even making it to the door, handcuffed, and led away by the men in the little white coats. But evidently she didn't call.
I have never called her office since then nor gone back. I want nothing to do with her. She sees me manic ONE time and she thinks she can accurately tell me what I need? Um, I don't fucking think so. Had I been seeing her for awhile, then yeah, maybe. Then she would have had the opportunity to see the different faces of me. Depression, hypomanic, hypermanic, dead inside, livin' large... me on that fucking pendulum of doom that I ride every day of my so-called life. Up into mania on one side, down into depression on the other side and every fucking thing else in between and it never ever stops and I'm never ever allowed to get off it. She still has my address and telephone number of course. But when I missed my last appointment with her, there was never a phone call. So ladies and gentlemen, it's safe to assume (and we all know what assume means, don't we?) that she cares even less than I do/did.
We all live/exist in these bubbles. Some people's bubbles are always bright and cheerful with parties going on inside them all the time, the owner of the bubble in the center just smiling, laughing and carrying on... then there are people who are just existing in their gray bubbles. they go to work, the take care of their families, they do what needs to be done, they just keep on keeping on, ya know? Then you see bubbles that are just bouncing every fucking where, off walls, off buildings in a single bound, just doing the fucking Tigger dance all the time, if you know what I mean... little kids have really excited bubbles like this...
Go to a public park where there is a fair amount of people, preferably one in the middle of a busy downtown district or something like that and just find a bench (bring a lunch!) and sit there and watch how people are living in their bubbles, you will see all the different kinds there really are...you'll know them when you see them too... oh look, there's a family oriented bubble, look at the crayon masterpieces that decorate the sides of it... oh, there's one who is really into his hobby of building and sailing his model boats... aw... there's a cute couple whose bubbles are so full of new love and wonderment... then you're going to see one sooner or later... you're going to see a black bubble. It's sitting off to itself, seemingly watching bubbles, just like you're doing, but that person doesn't even notice the bubbles... the life around him/her. The bubble is an unforgiving black. They can't see through it and no light gets in. It is darker than their world was before they were born and they are just there... they are only existing. They want, so bad, to pop their bubble and disappear from existence, but for one reason or a dozen others they just can't do it.
Depression has a grip on them. It's strangling them. It's trying it's best to kill them. Their bubble may turn a dark red. They still can't see out. They can only feel the Intermittent Explosive Disorder squeezing them... constricting around their chests like a Boa Constrictor constricts around its prey to kill and eat it. Their bubble may turn a dark gray where depression is overlaying a million and one other dreadful feelings that can't even be described, then the black reemerges and you see nothing again. If you go over and sit next to that black bubble you're likely to hear beating, banging, scratching, and screaming going on within it. You may even see it rip just a little bit but it quickly grows back over. Then the bubble floats away, low to the ground, scuffing against trees or walls or fences now and again. You see other bubbles subconsciously move out of it's way. There is no interaction. Other bubbles don't want to be near it. They let it go. They don't try to speak. They don't know why they just know they don't. Even the ones that do know and understand what it's about may shy away. They don't know what to do for that bubble. They don't know how to fix that bubble so they avoid it. Not out of malice, mind you, just out of survival instincts.
The black bubbles are bottomless. They are all-consuming. They are hard to clean off. Many pop of their own accord when they cand stand the blackness eating them alive any longer. Chomp! Chomp! Chomp!
Under the black of my bubble is a dark rainbow of colors. I am made to ride this pendulum in this bubble. Sometimes I want to pop my bubble and blink out of existence once and for all but I don't do that because I have other bubbles who are attached to me and I won't do that to them. It's been done to me and I wouldn't give that grief to someone I loved. But the black bars which surround my bubble, always threatening to close completely in, sometimes do. Sometimes they do and I keep wiping the blackness away. Sometimes I wish my bubble wasn't so fucking strong. They must have used industrial powered shit to make my bubble because I have stumbled through so many spikes of life that my bubble should have popped before I even became a toddler. My bubble wasn't even supposed to last this fucking long!
Dark, rambling thoughts from a mind who hasn't had the chance to let go of the grief and the relief I was given yesterday. My pendulum is fucking doing the loop de loop.
