Day 01: What flavour of bipolar are you? What does your diagnosis mean to you?
My official diagnosis is bipolar type 1, which basically means I’m the craziest of the cray cray. I have ups. I have downs. I have lefts. I have rights. I have all sorts of things in all manner of directions. But mainly I have ‘manic episodes’ (ups), ‘depressive episodes’ (downs) and everything in between. And it’s been this way ever since I was a humble teenager with no idea what was causing all the crazy shenanigans my brain was coming up with.
When I’m manic I generally believe myself to be an immortal God. I can accomplish anything I put my mind to. I can achieve any goal I set out to achieve and I am the greatest thing that has ever walked the face of the planet. I am stylish. I am enigmatic. I exude confidence. When I’m manic there is nothing that can stop me; not a thought, not a criticism, not a speeding train. When I’m manic there is no putting me down, putting me off or dissuading me from whatever it is I’ve set out to achieve. When I’m manic I’ll randomly smack unsuspecting women on their posterior in order to begin conversation. When I’m manic, once I’ve started talking there is little you can do to stop me. When I’m manic I crave sexual contact as if my very life depended on it. But it should be noted that when I’m manic I don’t crave intercourse, no siree, I crave cunnilingus, for this is the second greatest act you can perform with another human being and is single-handedly one of the greatest things you can spend your life indulging in.
It should go without saying that, when I’m manic, I’m actually an arsehole! Not that manic-me would ever admit that!
But when I’m depressed, things are very very different. I can accomplish nothing. I don’t have any goals and I am the most repulsive thing that has ever walked the face of the planet. I am grotesque. I am worthless. I exude melancholy. When I’m depressed there are literally millions of things that can stop me from performing even the most mundane of tasks. When I’m depressed I spend my life putting myself down, putting myself off and dissuading me from everything I set out to achieve. When I’m manic I’ll do whatever I can to avoid women, even though I want nothing more than to talk to them. When I’m depressed, it would take a rocket up my posterior to get me to start talking. When I’m depressed I crave sexual contact, but avoid it as if my very life depended on it. But it should be noted that when I’m depressed I don’t crave intercourse, no siree, I crave cunnilingus, for this is the second greatest act you can perform with another human being and is single-handedly one of the greatest things you can spend your life indulging in.
It should go without saying that, when I’m depressed, I’m actually an arsehole! But I seriously don’t mean to be.
When I was first diagnosed as the craziest of the cray cray I was relieved. Finally, after so long not knowing what was causing all the chaos, I had an answer. There was actually a reason for my insanity and I relished in the knowledge that I was bipolar. But now? I really couldn’t care less. Eight years after my initial diagnosis it really doesn’t mean anything to me, for I have moved past the ‘needing a label’ stage of my life. Sure the bipolar will cause all the ups and downs, lefts and rights, that it pleases, but that doesn’t mean these shifts of mood have to define me. I am not bipolar. I am Addy. And – thankfully – nothing in the world is going to change that.
It should be noted that only myself (and my close friends and family) will get away with calling me the “craziest of the cray cray”, anyone else who attempts to use such stigmatizing words to describe me will be met with a stern scolding, and possibly a spanking, depending on my current mood! ;)