Sometimes I don’t want to spin positive. I don’t want to look at a glass and be mindful that is half full.
Being bipolar sucks. Even with acceptance and awareness and proper management, it sucks and it’s always going to suck, at least on some level at some amount.
I think it’s the unpredictability that gets to me the most. I never know when I’m going to make the drop, I just know it’s going to come. And even worse, I know it’s going to come but I forget. I forget every time. I forget that I don’t feel so much better because I *am* so much better. I forget that I’m not getting worse, I’m just switching gears.
Maybe if there was a schedule. Two weeks up, one week down. Something predictable and routine. I could arrange my life around it if there was a schedule. Plan for extra childcare during the down week, have some meals frozen. Give my husband a two day reminder of what is to come.
I’ve made peace, most of the time on most days, with who I am. I am comfortable with the glaring contradictions in my personality. Sometimes I am the clean house, delicious meal, patient and craft making mom and sometimes I am the television-as-babysitter, eat whatever’s in the fridge, do as little as I can to get by kind of mom. Sometimes I plan lunches and outings and playdates and night dates and sometimes I hide in the house, trying to avoid both the dishes and the shower. I understand it now and I’m (mostly) okay with it.
It’s the forgetting and the not knowing that gets to me. “Man, I feel great!” I think. “Thank God that is over. This place is a mess, time to clean! And grocery shop! And cook! And call some friends! And go to storytime! And play group! Maybe we should host a dinner….?” And I busy myself and dig myself out of the hole I just created and the whole time I’ve forgotten that it is actually *me* that made that hole.
And then it changes. Switches. I have plans to go to story time but I can’t seem to make it happen, can’t actually imagine all the work of dressing and interacting and driving. The house hasn’t been swept in 3 days, and with a toddler it *shows*, and I snuggle on the couch with my daughter and watch Doc McStuffins. Unless she starts getting too rowdy or too needy or too *two*. And I think, every time, “I should call the doctor. I think I’m getting worse. Maybe my medication needs to be upped or something.”
And then, this morning, I remembered: I don’t need to call anyone, I just need to wait. This is what happens every.single.time.
I really dislike not having a schedule.