For the past 7 years I have had the diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder 2.
Sometimes I think the diagnosis is wrong; sometimes family members question it. Even though I've had those wacked ups and downs, I mostly experience the down along with some raging anxiety. Anxiety that is more than just the sweaty-palm, nervous tension -- it's painful and rips me apart.
"It," meaning the illness, has affected every part of my life, my family, my friendships, my community work and my day job just like many other chronic illnesses would.
I've been suicidal but never hospitalized. I believe that mental illness runs in my family. I've been under medical supervision at every step of the way. I've been told that it's good that I never reproduced. I've become insular as a means of coping. I've talked about myself way too much.
I believe that mental and physical health issues are all intertwined and are written all over the face.
Although it sucks just like any other chronic condition, I'm glad that Bipolar 2 is what I've been given to bear, so far, and not something else. When I'm not feeling like I'm living in the pit of despair it's not such a bad diagnosis to deal with, right?
Every time I feel good, though, I cautiously evaluate whether it's hypomania or healthy. Then I think, who cares? I'm feeling good.
I'm starting to get back to that feeling good state and I'm trying not to think about it too hard.
Isn't that a pretty picture? I borrowed it from here.