After the reality check (oh the irony) of this weekend, there was lots of metaphorical fist bumping and high-fiving at therapy today.
Rejoicing that we know what is going on–we have the right diagnosis and know the right meds.
Celebrating just how much I’ve been able to accomplish in spite of all this nonsense. That I’ve accomplished what I have with very few people even knowing how much I struggled.
Discussing how to keep the nonsense in my head in a box on a shelf, how to find the triggers.
Discussing how to tell my parents I have bipolar with psychotic features.
Psychotic features. Four days ago I had a moment where I didn’t know what was real.
Four days ago.
Do you have any idea how terrifying that is? Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to realize a huge chunk of what you thought were your thoughts, is really shit your brain made up? That, in Sara’s words, we caught this in the nick of time–that this could have, and possibly still could, get worse?
But you know what the worst part is?
The feeling that if anyone catches wind of it around here I’m done for. I’m the public face of an organization in Small Town America where we hide the awkward and uncomfortable.
I would give a kidney to have someone here, in this town, that I could call and tell everything to. I want to know that there is someplace I could physically go and it wouldn’t matter what I did or did not have.
Its not going to be this stupid disorder that gets me, its going to be the fact that I have to keep quiet about the fact that I have it.
And that’s not OK.