Bipolar Is ... Struggle or Slavery

by Jerod Poore

Priority to medication, being bipolar was a struggle between being the charming, confident, arrogant, violent, hypersexual, hyperintelligent manic me and the appetiteless, tired, worthless, foggy headed, self-esteem-lower-than-whale-crap-on-the-bottom-of-the-ocean depressed me. Mania usually won, to the point of my being in mixed states far more often than true depressions. It was hard to tell who I was during periods of ultradian rapid cycling when the tag teams would hand off every five or fifteen minutes.

Now that I'm on meds and the mood swings are more-or-less under control, it means that I've a slave to the side effects. The constant fatigue, the scatterbrainedness, the worsened ADD that is no longer hyperfocused, the faulty memory, the extrapyramidal symptoms (oops, I dropped it again), the language problems. I don't want to think about the long-term effects, I just don't.

I may no longer be struggling over who I am, but for damn sure I'm no longer me any more. I'm a new me, a much nicer person, so I'm told. Far more fit for civilized society, with fewer rages and more forgiving of other people's faults.

The only problem is that the lack of mania has allowed the agoraphobia and PTSD to fully bloom. I may get along with the rest of the world better, but now I'm too afraid to leave my house. Rock, paper, scissors.

Written October 14, 2002