Fourteen years ago, I was diagnosed with bipolar. At the time, I couldn’t think of anything more pitiful. Me? With a mental illness? Surely not. This was in the middle of a full-blown manic episode. I tried to deny that anything was wrong, and I didn’t want to take medicine the rest of my life.
I put up mild pushback on my parents when they told me I needed to take my medicine. Since I was 19, they probably had a tightrope to walk with me. Could they really force me to do anything? I feel they did a great job handling my diagnosis. They helped me get better and then thrive after I was back in my right mind.
I did get better, and I grew to appreciate my medicine and everything it did for me. Of course, as with anyone diagnosed with a mental illness, I’ve had moments where I’ve thought, Do I really need the medicine? Do I actually have bipolar?
But then I think back to my first appointment with my first psychiatrist and those thoughts get squelched pretty quickly.
“You’re on your way to a full recovery,” he said. “But know this: If you go off of your medicine, there is no build up like there was this time. You won’t slowly go back to a manic episode. If you stop taking your medicine, you will end up exactly where you left off this time and then spiral downward from there. Do not stop taking your medicine, for any reason.”
Well, you can bet that scared the absolute crap out of me. In no universe did I ever want to experience mania or a psychotic break again. So, I always keep my psychiatrist in mind if I start wondering what it’d be like without my medicine.
I have other motivations, too. Even if I don’t have bipolar (which I find very unlikely), why would I mess with anything I have going on? My medicines have no side effects, except to make me sleepy at night (my favorite thing about them). And I am stable and have been for nearly fifteen years.
In high school—before my diagnosis and medication—I had no trouble sleeping, but that was only because I played sports year around and exercised 2-4 hours every day. I also did not sleep much at night. I probably averaged 5-6 hours of sleep every night in high school. As soon as my head hit the pillow every night, I’d be out like a light.
Now that I know about hypomania, I’m certain I spent most of high school in that state. One author (who also has bipolar) describes hypomania as three-quarters manic. You get all the energy and productivity of mania but you’re under control. Thoughts are fast but not racing. Ideas and creativity flow and you can still focus and accomplish tasks. I had boundless energy for school and sports almost every day.
Unfortunately, for me, my version of hypomania also comes with some otherworldly irritability. I was always a hair trigger away from going ballistic, even before high school. I usually took my anger out on my family. I remember having screaming matches with my parents or siblings for no reason at all. I also had little tolerance for mistakes from teammates. I took sports seriously, and I never understood why my teammates didn’t treat winning as life or death like I did.
A few times in high school, I think I barely avoided manic episodes. I somehow did because I always seemed to get just enough sleep. After my diagnosis and subsequent recovery, I reflected on my life to that point and the bipolar diagnosis made a ton of sense to me.
Sure, I still have moments when I wish I didn’t have to take medicine every day. The only down side to the medicine and psychiatric appointments is the cost. My antipsychotic is expensive and so are the med check appointments.
But to me, my sanity is priceless. Cost does not matter; I want to stay in my right mind, which means taking my medicine and prioritizing sleep. So that’s what I’ll do, until the day I die.
Between Two Poles 