Many of us have experienced depression. Most of us live through it and recover. But a few years ago, for the first time in my life, I was in a depression so deep that I found myself thinking, “I understand now why people suffering from severe depression become suicidal.” I wasn’t actually there, but I could finally relate – which scared me in and of itself.
My GP, who had been treating my anxiety for years, tried a few meds, but nothing seemed to work. So she referred me to a psychiatrist.
“This just isn’t me.” I told him. “I’m usually effervescent, upbeat, energetic. I’m the social butterfly who makes friends with everyone. I throw myself into every aspect of life. Sure I have ‘downs’ – but they’ve always been circumstantial, triggered by something that happens in my life. I am usually able to snap out of it within a few weeks. My norm is a bubbly, bouncy life of the party person who juggles work, home and social life easily. But this depression has lasted for months – and it keeps getting worse, not better.”
“Hmmm.” Long pause. “I’m just thinking out loud here, but have you ever considered that you might suffer from a bipolar disorder?”
Silence. I took a breath and processed that idea. Suddenly, a lot of things I had said and done – and not done – made a lot more sense. My whole life had a clear rhythm.
“Wow. You might be right. But not the really bad kind. Maybe the lesser version?”
“Cyclothymia.”
“Yea. That would actually make sense. But I don’t want to be on mood stabilizers or anything.”
“As long as you are generally happy and functional, I don’t think we need to worry about treating it in that way. A lot of people are at their best when they’re hypomanic. We’ll focus on getting you out of the depression.”
I had long before recognized Bipolar Disorder I in my mother. It was glaringly obvious that a woman who went from deep depression and days spent in bed to “I’m going to move my children from Florida, where they have friends and family and I have a job, to Cambridge, Maryland, where I don’t have a job or know anyone simply because during my first, brief elopement at age 19, we stopped there for one night and I liked it,” was manic-depressive. She was either unrealistically upbeat, spending money she didn’t have and driving herself into debt while taking us on random, last-minute adventures – or so depressed that all she did was work and sleep. (And yell. Her depression also manifested in anger. Fun childhood.) Textbook.
But me? I’d never even considered that I might also be bipolar until it was pointed out so gently and clearly. I delved into research and gradually came to accept this as a correct diagnosis. Over time, however, and after deeper reflection on my entire life – from early childhood on – I finally had to admit that I had experienced more than just symptoms of both hypomania and depression. I had had full-blown episodes of either one or the other pretty much my whole life. That meant Bipolar Disorder II, not the milder Cyclothymia I’d initially latched onto.
Being aware of my bipolar nature now makes things a LOT easier. I can look at how I’m feeling and it suddenly makes sense – and I know what to do about it. Knowledge is power – and despite my many Monsters, life is good. I have finally managed – with the help of the right combination of medications – to find a middle ground. For the first time in my life I have achieved something I knew about but had never felt before: contentment. Not elation, not heartbreak and misery, but calm and happiness that is peaceful and reserved. It feels good. Safe. Solid.
I’d like to hang out here for a while.
