I refuse to accept it. THAT diagnosis. Bipolar II (mood swings: lite). Perhaps I’m in the first stage of grief – denial – mourning the loss of my sanity? Or, perhaps, I’m just overthinking things – as I’m wont to do?
I refuse to live on medication in order to feel “normal”. I refuse to be “normal”. I refuse. Maybe she’s born with it?
My psychologist, who speaks from a strong spiritual perspective, says insanity is not a part of our perfect design. That the maker created us to be of sound mind. The diagnosis may well be the scientific communities attempt to understand a complex phenomenon of behaviours. It does not have to define me. I am more than a word. Much more than any diagnosis.
Its all a matter of perspective. I can’t seem to identify with the stories of sufferers of Bipolar mood disorder. Once I began on a path of recovery from my addiction to alcohol, I no longer had a drinking problem – I had a living problem. Without the hazy effects of alcohol, I was forced to re-engage with life on life’s terms.
If I hadn’t stopped drinking, I would never have married my rock of a husband. I would never have had this beautiful baby girl. I would never have experienced personal growth. As I’ve said before, my post-natal depression humbled me. I could no longer keep living like that – anxious, afraid, victimised, angry.
It’s almost as if God completely broke me down in order to birth a mother. I would not have had that experience, had I continued hiding behind alcohol.
I am going through a season in my life. One in which I have to take medication to address the chemical imbalances in my body. It is only for a season. If I am diligent and faithfully committed to my Maker’s promises, then I shall be healed. And live.
You see, I’m not striving for “normal”. I want to strive to be the best version of myself. I want to learn to love myself – warts and all. I want to grow from my experiences, instead of being defined by them.
The bipolar label ties one down to a reality of otherness. You become stigmatised and relegated to the fringes of a utopian normality. This is my perspective. I am not trying to take away from the legitimate struggles of those battling mental illness. I am merely trying to come to terms with a diagnosis, which I feel was pinned to me like the tail of a donkey at a kiddies party.
Perhaps, I am overthinking? Maybe it just may be? Angazi, but I’m sure!