I’ve been less depressed these days and, as always, I feel like I don’t have a lot to offer my blog. It’s kinda funny, actually. When I’m depressed I think how there is nothing in me to share because my life is worthless. When my life is high I think there are so many things I want to share and write about. When I’m stable, I also feel like I have so little to add. One of the LCWs in my last program told me that, if she was the one hiring she would hire me. She also said I was an “inspiration.”
I have the feeling she’s not around a bunch of mentally ill folks that are doing well. Of course there are many of us in her programs, but they are having the very worst time in their lives. It’s not impressive. It’s just sad.
I don’t feel like I am sorry for them. It’s just part of it and it’s not necessarily a permanent state. There are good things about having bipolar. It has made me in to a more compassionate person. It’s even made me smarter. I know a whole heckuva lot about all kinds of mental illnesses. I’m even a little proud of my bipolar diagnosis now. My life is hard (sometimes) and I have to spend so much time managing it that there are things I want to do that I can’t because of it. I admit to being a tad ashamed about the OCD and even the ADHD. I’m not at the point that the jokes don’t hurt, but, to be honest, I was guilty of making such jokes.
I saw a woman years who washed her hands so much her skin was almost transparent. She was wacky anyway, and I don’t feel like the hand washing made her more or less so. My own prejudice lies in knowing folks with schizophrenia. I admit I was pretty darn manic the last time I was in the hospital. There was a large, mixed race woman, who was dealing with her her illness. She did things like eat cigarettes and discuss her religions (Roman Catholic, Jehovah Witness and one other I can’t remember.) Honestly, I thought the whole thing was hilarious. Then, I found out that we were on the same drugs.
This disturbed me. How close was I going to be to her? I asked a nurse and she couldn’t tell me anything about her diagnosis or regime. I asked another nurse, pointedly, why she and I were on the same drugs. She said that, although we took many of the same drugs, her basic, foundational drugs were different than mine. I might take Abilify (one of my favorites and most effective) and so might she, but her dose might just serve to augment all she is working with.
My uncle had schizophrenia. We made fun of him all the time. One time he bought a ceiling fan for everyone he knew. Another time his expression of his illness came in the form of purchasing doughnuts. As a very young man they inflicted Electro-Convulsive Therapy. He was in and out of the hospital my whole life, and his whole life. He finally died in an institution, thousands of miles away from us, covered in bed sores and alone. His wife never took care of him. I cannot understand his misery. Perhaps it was best to laugh.
I don’t know what the point of this all is.
I am getting fatter and fatter. My belly hangs out below my sweatshirt and it is embarrassing. Am I going to go and do anything about it?