I was diagnosed about 18 years ago, and had a wonderful doctor. It explained a lot of the horrid things I did. Promiscuity was part of it. If I had put a notch into my wood queen-size headboard every time I fooled around, the sucker would fit into Barbie's Doll House! I had come from abuse, though, and I handled it by abhoring it. So when I get manic (which I still do), I clean. I take everything out of every corner and throw it in the middle of the floor so I have to "deal with it". My biggest troubles come when the depression hits and I still have a mess. The clutter in my mind is indicative of the clutter in my head. I find that without lithium, I have the same creative passions I had when I was 18. My nickname used to be Bozo. I was a clown at work. Always laughing, crazy sense of humor, cracking everyone up. But when I would get home, I didn't have to worry and I would throw myself on the floor and cry. I seldom went to parties. I always ended up sitting in the corner crying. But I analyze everything to death, and this was no exception. I think that's what saved me. But someone once asked me what it was like. My best description. Imagine how high you were at the most special moment in your life, absolutely euphoric. Now imagine losing the most important thing or person in your life, and the devastation you feel. Now imagine those are the only two emotions you can feel. That's what it was like. I'm a rapid-cycler, but age is slowing it down a bit. I've always been a clown, and I'm sure my sense of humor has saved me, too. Right now, I'm on nothing because I can't afford a doctor and I have no help. But I have multiple challenges and a mixed blessing -- a lot of time to make me my pet project. I found the things I valued the most were the things that stressed me the most. I work on me. But I don't kid myself. I have a best friend of decades whom I love dearly, and my darling daughter. They have orders that if they catch me doing something that isn't quite right, tell me and make sure I hear it. So far, so good. But I still have one question. Why is it that before you're diagnosed, you're sane. You're running around being a poster child for Girls Behaving Badly, staying out all night, drunk all night, and waking up to those memorable words, "I'd like to call you. What did you say your name was?" But you're sane, with all the rights that go with sanity. Then you are diagnosed and treated. You stop imitating rabbits, you leave something at the bar for someone else and you're actually getting rest before going to work. But you are on lithium and you have the "B" word! Bipolar! You are insane! Certified! Suddenly, you can't get a tb test without a doctor's permission? I'll never figure that one out. If you go by that, then you only need to look at the world and, based on this premise, realize that, for the most part, the inmates are running the institution!
