the life of zooey who happens to be Bipolar 2
Denial and depression like to skip hand-in-hand across the playground of my life. They ride banana seat bikes through my neighborhood streets. They play kick the can of normal life. The rusted can scrapes and bumps on the cement, its sound fading into the twilight silence.
If I didn’t write, would depression reduce itself down to a Nano bug and creep away each time? Yep.
I was diagnosed with bipolar 2 over 4 years ago and still feel like a fake. I read about others coping with depression and unable to function. When depressed, I find a way to keep going at work and home. Food gets cooked. Dishes get done. Laundry washed. Errands are run. How bad can my depression be if I can function as well as someone without depression? Faker.
Fuck you treasonous depression dog. You never leave me the hell alone, even during good times.
Articles about bipolar being over diagnosed litter the internet with suspicion. Not just from Psychology Today, but from PhD’s of various sorts from credible schools. I remember one nurse saying that there was actually very few people diagnosed correctly with bipolar when I gave her my medication list, implying I was not on the short list.
Tiny. Little. Bug. Bites. I scratch them until they bleed.
Mosquitos of doubt flying around my head. Telling me not to trust what my friends observed. Telling me not to trust the professional therapist and psychiatrist observations and their treatment plan. Telling me just suck it up and get off these pills. Really, I am not bipolar 2.
“It’s just silly phase I’m going through…” 10cc It is just really stress!
I read of others with bipolar 1 and 2. All are very sure and give such solid examples. All are dealing and managing. And here I sit at the magic show waiting for the disappearing act to come on stage.
This is my circle unbroken. The rejection and fetid reasoning bubbling in cauldron of doubt.
What’s the magic word?