My grandmother, Neta, used to listen to me tell her about the latest catastrophe in my life, and then she would tap her temple with her index finger, shake her head, and say, “Think! Think! Think!”.

---

Alternatively, she might say, “Stoooopid.” I loved the way she did that. Her minimal response was loud with the notion that the catastrophe had happened simply because I needed more practice thinking. Her “Stoooopid” was far from insulting; instead, it was an opportunity to laugh about the ridiculous mistakes we all sometimes make in life.

My husband listens to me tell him about the latest hard day that I’ve had, and then he simply says, “Uh huh.” And that’s about it. If he worries about me, he doesn’t say so. Last night, I told him I’ve been having some doubts about whether or not I have a mental illness. I told him I’ve been wondering about the power of suggestion, and he seemed to understand what I meant even though I didn’t go in to any detail. He smiled and said, “Uh huh.”

“You know, you have this unique ability to listen to me, no matter what, and never take a side, never give advice. I mean that in a good way.” I said.

“I pick sides,” he responded. “I pick your side.”

What strikes me about both Neta and David is their confidence in me. I can’t imagine either of them ever denying me the right to my own thoughts, my own ideas. Why, oh why, do I have so little confidence in myself?

---

I am critically and curiously reevaluating the assumptions and facts I have at my disposal about me and mental illness. I’ve done this often, over the years, never willing to pick a specific side and stick with it. It’s all a gray area for me, the area these doubts occupy. Sometimes I lay them down for a very long time. Sometimes I pick them back up and examine them curiously, like a puzzle I keep coming back to.

• I doubt that I have a mental illness at all.
• I doubt that my behavior isn’t within my control.
• I doubt that my experiences are as extreme as I make them out to be.
• I doubt that the worst of my mental states did not occur because I was experimenting with alcohol and psycho-pharmacutical medications, and because I was dealing with the consequences of immature and self-indulgent decisions I knew better than to make when I made them.

Over the past several days, as I’ve read more and more posts on other blogs by authors who are struggling with psychosis and mania and truly crippling depression, I’ve begun to doubt my diagnosis. More than that, I’ve begun to doubt the way I cling to my diagnosis, and I’ve started wondering if I’m hiding behind it. How many times have I made the decision not to do something I need to do – from cleaning house, to getting my dental work done, to eating a half-way healthy diet, to exercising – and blamed it on being bipolar?

Am I taking pills instead of making good decisions?

Popularity: 1%