I had a lunch hour think about my doubts yesterday; the ones that plague me about the history of my struggle with this illness.
I should mention that this is not the first time I’ve had a good long think about my accepting my diagnosis. I should mention that the thoughts are uncomfortable and confusing. I should mention that I have a history of swinging back and forth with my conclusions, and with my approach to managing my symptoms. I usually end up assigning my conclusions to either “I don’t have bipolar disorder, I just have a low character”, or “blame everything on bipolar disorder”.
As I sat in my car, eating my Quarter Pounder With Cheese, considering the either-or questions about my diagnosis, I felt an uncomfortable tension in my torso. It almost felt like fear, and I could practically hear my own subconscious warning me that I was coming dangerously close to a conclusion about myself that could lead to stopping my medication again. I remembered the horrible withdrawal symptoms I’ve experienced in the past when I’ve suddenly decided that I just have a low character. I remembered the frustration of malfunctioning reason and judgement, the utter inability to focus on anything for more than an hour or two at a time – and the reverse, the hyper-focus on a wonderful intention, and getting pretty far down the road toward accomplishing some goal, and then suddenly becoming totally unable to complete the project.
If I had done nothing more than listen to that internal voice I wouldn’t have given the questions in my mind much more thought, but I ignored it while I ate my lunch. I thought about that first Paxil pill I took back in 1996 and wondered, regretfully, if all of the problems I went through were 100% caused by the medications I used, off and on, throughout all the worst years. I wondered if I took that medication, went on and off the medication, because I needed an excuse for the destructive, self-indulgent decisions I was making right and left. I even wondered if the mental health professionals I consulted during those years led me in to a lake of fire. I wondered if the medications I’ve been taking all these years have permanently damaged my brain, rendering me unable to function without them.
In other words, I spent a lot of time thinking about personal responsibility, yesterday. The very phrase was like a light from a distant source, shining down on the ground somewhere in front of me. A light I wanted to follow.
And so I took a deep breath, and here’s what I decided to consider as I move through the next few days:
- I think a lot better, and feel a lot better, on the medications I’m taking right now
- There’s no need for me to think about my medications, right now
- Ruminating about a period in my life that was awful won’t help me move forward
- I don’t practice much personal responsibility in my life – but that doesn’t really have anything to do with my character
Funny, but once I’d reached this point in my thinking I felt better, not worse. Taking as much personal responsibility as I can for my decisions big and small is something that is within my control every moment of every day. Personal responsibility is the opposite of helpless, and taking personal responsibility for the choices I make about my life feels good.
Taking charge of the choices I make about my ability to live a full and happy life despite having bipolar disorder means, to me, right now, doing exactly what I’m doing with this blog. It means stepping out of the shadows of my past, my fears, and my assumptions. It means not accepting the isolation I’ve surrounded myself with for so long, or my unwillingness to expose myself to rejection or failure because I’m different.
It means thinking well of myself.
Popularity: 1%