I aimed to write this post some months ago, after an experience in one of the more unlikely of places gave me something unexpectedly positive to hold on to. I believed this to be the piece that had been missing; this would be the critical thread that could help knit me back together.

It was whilst I was undergoing a surprisingly thorough health M.O.T. at my gym that I, for the first time, calmly confronted my diagnosis and engaged in a conversation that left me feeling liberated. It lifted the crushing sense of shame that had been pressing down on me more and more each day. Every molecule of time had felt contaminated and I began to fear I was contaminating everything and everyone around me too.

Sitting in a chair, recovering from a number of fitness tests (which left me convinced I had turned into a blimp), the woman asked if I took any medication. I took a sharp intake of breath. But I couldn’t avoid this as many medications place restrictions on exercise. So, I began listing them: salbutamol [pause] [another intake of breath], Lithium, Quetiapine – wait, the woman was drawing little circles with the computer mouse. We were entering a spelling vortex. I began to spell out the words for her, but it was clear that she was struggling. I offered to type the words in myself. Eventually, when I had finished, I had typed in four psychiatric medications, a medication, diazepam, taken PRN (Pro re nata – as needed) and an asthma inhaler.

She woman squinted at the screen: “That’s a lot of medication…” I laughed out loud and nodded. She laughed too, somewhat baffled. “Erm, ah, would you mind… can I ask what they’re for? It’s just that we kind of need to know what illness, ah, thing, they’re for… And could you maybe pop down too the dosages? I’m really sorry. I hope I’m not being rude?”

Was she being rude? Should I feel affronted by her inquisitiveness? The familiar wave of shame began to wash over me. But then, suddenly, the wave washed out to sea and I felt strangely calm. She wasn’t asking me these questions because she was unnerved by the sheer volume of medications, she was genuinely, and innocently curious, and I realized that I shouldn’t be ashamed at all. I remembered my friends, and do think of them as very good friends now, on Twitter who are in no way ashamed of having a psychiatric diagnosis. In fact, they are confidently upfront about their illness. And I have never been confidently upfront about any aspect of my illness. I had hidden it from my employers and this made my episode in 2010-11 all the more horrifying because I felt that I had been there on borrowed time, on false pretenses. Even though I had been well for three and a half years. Although it was my decision, the effects and aftereffects of that episode caused me to resign from my job in 2012. After only three years in post. However…

“I’m bipolar” There. I said it. I said it back to myself, almost inaudibly, just to check I’d actually said it.

“Oh. Goodness. That’s a bit like manic depression, right? I don’t know anything about that sort of thing. I mean, my mum suffers from bouts of depression, but that’s not the same. Can I ask you what it’s like?”

And I answered her, as full and frank as I thought was appropriate, given I was sitting in an office in a gym!

A weight was lifted. Yes, I am bipolar. Yes, it is often terribly debilitating. Yes, it is sometimes fantastic. No. I am not ashamed of who and what I am. I could finally bring the disparate threads and cumbersome pieces of my past and present together.

***

That was March this year.

It is now September. And I no longer feel liberated. Again I feel the cloak of shame wrapping itself around me.

I am ashamed of the behaviour I exhibited whilst in crisis. I am reticent to socialize with people because I am terrified that I have BIPOLAR tattooed on my forehead, clearly, for everyone to see. I am fearful of the whole world because I don’t believe it has space for me and my particular brand of crazy. Or at least people don’t have space for the brand of crazy I have exhibited in the past.

I take my medication: Lithium, Quetiapine, Aripriprazole, Lamotrigine (and diazepam and zopiclone – PRN). Nothing changes. Nothing stays the same. I’m all at sea. When I said I was comfortable with all of this, I was kidding myself. I do recognise that I have a disability, but I would hide it again.

Perhaps I’m writing this so it will be the confession I cannot do in person. I will tell people I blog so that they can listen to my digital voice and not my stilted and stuttering other self. A self that is galaxies away from the best me, the me that had it all and blew it completely out of the water. The me that won’t talk to you if you ask and won’t tell you if there is a problem because she simply cannot explain it. She doesn’t have the vocabulary anymore.

I’m bipolar, but I’m not. I can’t handle the pieces that come my way.

[1] Transcriptions – To The Lighthouse – Diaries – Diary Of Virginia Woolf