You know, there are quite a few things they don’t tell you about mental illness. Especially when your considered only slightly mentally ill. As if such a thing exists. But when you’re labelled Bipolar 2 then anything that doesn’t fit the label is roughly discarded like so much garbage.

They don’t talk about the sleepless nights. Or the fact that some how you can be so crazy that Seroquel won’t even put you to sleep.

They don’t tell you how you will constantly question yourself in circles having the same conversations with yourself over and over and over and over…

They don’t talk about the jitteriness that comes. That keeps you constantly moing somehow even if it’s just your legs or fingers. Or how you can feel your entire inside trembling .

They don’t accept the various levels of insanity. You know I finally told a therapist about the fantasy worlds I create for myself. She said that was fine as long as I am able to differetiate it from reality, it’s an acceptable way to cope. But I didn’t mention that I used to not differentiate it. I mean part of me knew it wasn’t real, but it was always overcome by explanations of how i could coexist in this fantasy and the real world. And what about how I would prefer the company of my fantasy friends to the real people around me. Still do sometimes. Yes, the fantasies are back. What happens when you can’t survive without the make beleive world in your head. They don’t tell you that you don’t have to believe your delusions to still be delusional.

They don’t mention that once you’re in the mental health system you will never again be taken seriously. That doctors and therapists will have more weight in describing you than you will. That the stain of mental illness will carry over even to your physical doctors. When everything physical is a result of bipolar or hypochondria.

They don’t tell you that there will be nights where you just want to tear your skin off. To walk out in the snow in shorts and a tank top. And you don’t know why.

And they don’t dare talk about the temptation of madness. How it flirts with you and seduces you so that you want to fall into it’s dark abyss.

But maybe I’m overgenerallizing. Maybe they don’t talk aobut these things cuz they don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. There’s no label for me. No diagnosable illness. I’m just mad, like the mad-hatter, with better fashion sense. I’m just a prisoner to my own mind and there is no escape, no prescription, that will ever change that.

Perhaps I will always remain an enigma to myself, and only I know it.

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Comments
  1. i know what you mean. I can totally relate. I hate how a diagnosis all of a sudden can mean you are crazy by society’s standards. A lot of people I’ve talked to lately at school think that bipolar means “crazy”. Of course, that means that they just unknowingly called me bonkers and so that kind of ruins relationships…. 😦

    But yeah. I can relate.

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