Forever

It happened downtown.

I was out late, which is odd for me, but I'd met up with a friend and we'd walked around while eating ice cream and catching up. It'd been a warm night, so I’d been in no rush to get home because warm nights in Newfoundland will be a rare thing soon. But because I worked in the morning, I knew I had to head back to The Shoe sometime. I turned on the car, turned up my music and started on my way back.

I was sitting at a red light when I saw the person. They were crossing the street, and looking away from me. I remember asking myself whether I should shout out or not, because they barely knew me. However, for some strange reason, I decided to. I rolled down the window and shouted across the street: "Hey!"

They looked back at me with a confused look on their face, so I tried again. "It's Kristi! I met you once? I know your friend?"

Their face lit up with recognition as they turned around and walked toward me. "Hi," they said to me, way less enthusiastically. "Could you actually give me a lift home?"

The question took me off guard, but I agreed, and when the light turned green I pulled over to the curb as they climbed in the door. It was dark, so they couldn't see the confusion on my face as to why they would want me to drive them home.

As we headed towards where they needed to go, they started to talk. I quickly realized what was happening, so I stayed as quiet as possible and just tried to listen.

They were in pain. That much was obvious to me. They kept telling me that I might have "actually saved their life." I didn't know how to respond to that except to say only that I was sorry that life hurt. As we drove the dark roads, they poured their heart out to me. Their living situation was not good, drugs were a problem, and worse than anything, their heart was hurting. I had no doubt in my mind that the person next to me might have done something to harm themselves had I not been driving by. My heart broke as I listened to the frustration and tears as they told me their story. I'd heard bits and pieces about their situation from my friend, but not the details. The passenger in my car just needed to talk because they were sick, and the pain couldn't be contained. My heart broke for them.

I was silent as I listened, only opening my mouth often enough to let them know I was listening. But I was also reeling. My thoughts were racing as they poured out their heart to me. I felt numb.

Why?

They sounded like me. Sitting next to me in my car was someone who echoed the hopelessness that so often crowds my brain. Sitting next to me was someone who allowed the tears to fall as their voice cracked and they tried to explain what was going on. My car smelled like weed, and I forced myself not to roll the window down, but all of that faded as it hit me like a punch in the gut.

We were the same.

I was next to someone who lived a completely different life than me. I was no better than them, and I know they worked hard and honestly--but I also knew that if two people met us on the street, they would judge us differently. Because I hide. All the time.

Months ago I wrote posts about being diagnosed with Bipolar II. When I go back and read those posts, I feel sick with embarrassment. When I met someone I liked, and when I posted a roommate ad online, I took down that blog. I was worried they would judge my story. I read those words about wanting to die, about the darkness, and needing medication, and I was terrified of people being scared of me and not wanting to be around me.

I filtered my readers so work colleagues wouldn't read the blog and find out. I worried about losing out on a promotion, and even worse-- that they would start to look at my every move and say I couldn't handle things because of what I have. I could never explain that in all the areas of my life, work has probably benefited the most from my highs. I am beyond productive when my brain kicks in with energy, and when the depression sinks in, I do everything in my power to stay just as productive so I don't let my employer down.

You see, I've never wanted to use Bipolar II as an excuse. I swore when I found out that I would not let it define me. I would never say that it WAS me. So I worked at hiding it even more than before I was diagnosed. I ran, I took the medication, I wrote, and I spoke to my therapist. I did everything in my power to fight it.  When I thought a high had arrived, I did everything to settle it down.

And for the most part, I was successful. When I went to the Waterford and spoke with the lady who had diagnosed me, for the final time before she left for a different position, she seemed pleased, if not proud. I took a bitter sense of pride in that. My work was paying off.

But when the last crash hit, I was discouraged. I'd known it was coming. I kept trying to prepare for it. I knew because of the high I'd been experiencing that one was likely to happen. I remember calling my friend and asking her how I would deal with it. She had no answer.

Not only was I discouraged, I was angry. Why? Why could I know this was coming, and why could I prepare, but yet it would still hit? I'd been working for months. I was fighting back, but yet the lows still threatened me at each turn. I couldn't understand how I could work so hard and it still always came back.

I finally emailed the psychologist at my wit's end, and he agreed to meet with me. It'd been months since I'd gone. I hadn't needed him. I'd been stable. I'd been normal. But now it was happening again.

His office smelled the same and it looked the same. He asked me why I was there.

I told him why. I half laughed as I explained to him that not only was I there because it was happening again, but I knew why it was happening. "I've figured it all out!" I said. 

Then my voice changed to the dead calmness I often speak in when I want to give up. "It feels like a literal fight every single day," I told him. "It's like I know what I have to do, and I prepare for battle every single day even though there's a chance I will lose."

It was pointless to be there, I felt. There was nothing I wasn't aware of, and really, I was just spending $100 for nothing. (He's used to my comments like this by now.) I half expected him to laugh. He often does because I make jokes and fill the conversation with sarcasm. But he didn't.

Rather, he said he was impressed with me. Impressed with my techniques such as going over my life and picking out the highs, lows, normal reactions, and everything in between. It was amazing, he said, that I decided this was the year of facing my fears: taking medication, getting help, watching whales, buying a house on my own, trying to date when I was terrified of the rejection, letting go of the relationship that's haunted me for years, and the planned skydiving.

"You're doing everything you can do," he said. "It's very rare to see someone approach this in such a healthy and proactive manner. You are self aware, and there's very little more you could be doing to be better."

But then he paused. "Except I think you need to accept something."

My eyes darted up from my lap, as he continued.

"This is your life. No matter what you do, no matter how healthy you are about all of it-- the reality is that this is going to be a part of your life. The last step might be to accept that Bipolar II is something you can fight, but it will never completely go away. The next time this happens might be another seven years from now, but the reality is that there is always the possibility of you having to deal with it.."

He might as well have punched me in the face.

I've known since I've been diagnosed that it's chronic. I’ve known it in my head anyway. But sitting there, trying to smile, I knew in my heart that he was right. Without even realizing it, it turns out that I've been so busy trying to not let it define me, that I've forgotten that it's going to last a lifetime. The highs and lows will be something I always have to track. I can take all the right pills, be as active as possible, go to talk therapy, and fight with my brain all day long--but at the end of the day, I need to accept that while it will never define me, it's a part of me.

Bipolar II. I hate repeating those words. Sometimes I feel as though I'd rather die than admit to the next person I fall in love with that I have something.  I'd rather die than tell my employer and have him question everything about my ability as a worker.

It's a part of me even though it is not me. Ever since the car ride with that person, I keep wondering if I should be more open.  Being open terrifies me.  For months I've been determined to beat Bipolar II. I'm in denial that it's here to stay.

It's not something I can beat. I will have to live with it.

If you took the two of us in the car that night, I would bet on almost no one believing that we could be in a similar headspace. That has to change. When people who seem to have it all together come forward and say admit they are sick, they are worried about not being taken seriously because of it. When those other people who are publicly falling apart say they are sick, people often dismiss them and blame other things. But we're the same.

If I'm being very honest, I've wanted to feel that I am better than that. While I've been grateful for understanding my life, I've still fought the label of Bipolar II at every turn.

I found a lump in my breast not long ago. I freaked out, went to the doctor, and within two weeks I was at St. Clare’s getting an ultrasound. It was nothing, but it got me thinking: had I been told that I had cancer, I most likely would have started treatment right away. Had I been diagnosed with cancer instead of Bipolar II, I am not exaggerating when I say that I feel my life would have been at less immediate risk with that than it used to be with my mental health.

I despise admitting that's how it is, because I fear the judgment. I don’t know how people do it. I have a doctor who cares and a pretty good support system. Yet, I know that many, many, people don’t.

This is my life. So much of it is amazing. I have the house of my dreams, a great job, a beautiful island to explore, and people who support me through thick and thin. But a part of my life is dealing with Bipolar II. The darkness, the highs, the productivity, and the fog. Accepting that they will come back is hard.

I can tell you today that I accept it, but I know that after weeks of being stable I won't want to discuss it. I will want to pretend that I'm normal like everyone else. I might delete this post and go back to not talking about it to anyone.

I have a lot of work to do and a lot of stupid pride to deal with. 

That's just about as much as I can accept for now.