I'm finally speaking out. I have finally had it with all of the jokes and play on words that so many people within our society like to reference—"you're acting bipolar today," and those sort of phrases. I'm sick of it and I'm sick of how the youth in our society likes to think they're being cool by overusing it. I'm angry and I'm sad at the same time. It affects me, yes it does, mainly because after decades of discovering this disease, people still think it's a psychological/psychiatric problem in our society that can be controlled by good weather, et al.
No, it's not as simple as that, is it?
I have been through hell and back this past year and I continually try to climb my way out of this deep dark hole every single day. Only to make it to the top, and drop down once again and continue to climb up from the bottom. I have been dealing with this for months even after my medication has been changed, altered and modified. It seems to be a regular habit for me because just as I feel that my medication is starting to work, I go into another "remission" of emotions only to increase yet once again. Will it ever get better? Will my circle of emotions solidify again? I want this so badly and I just want to be happy. Is that so much to ask? I am tired and I am emotionally exhausted and no longer can handle these feelings of discontent and sadness, and what makes it worse are the insensitive name-calling that I hear every single day coming from the mouths of today's youth and ignorant individuals who think what they're saying is actually funny, instead of what it really is, very hurtful to those of us suffering from bipolar disorder.
It's not funny.
My family is continually walking on eggshells with me, this much I can tell, and I hate it. I try so hard to make it right for them, but then I start to fall in that hole once again. I can see the smile on their faces when I'm smiling and happy, as if they're experiencing pure relief, but then when I'm sad and crying, they're sad and they're hurt. It affects them just as much as it affects me, but sometimes only worse. I can see the hurt in their eyes as I struggle with this illness on a regular, daily basis.
I hate it, but at the same time, I can't control it.
Nobody would love this, nobody would even like it, but whether we like it or not, is not the issue at hand, it's still out of our control and that much I loathe. I hate being out of control and I hate not having the wherewithal to get me out of this depressive slump that I am regularly experiencing.
As I type this post from a job that I now dislike and hate going to everyday, I continue to hope that my life will change and see a dramatic improvement in the upcoming days, if not weeks ahead. I get sad when I hear the misuse of "being bipolar" from the ignorance of today as well as the uneducated opinions of some, if not most. I will try to walk by with my head held high and hope that as the future unfolds, so will the education of this disease that is out of our control, and within our grasp as those of us struggling with this disorder, we try and improve our wellness and get healthy and become happy.
That is the goal.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Showing posts with label illness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label illness. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Sunday, May 27, 2012
What's it like, you know...to be Bipolar?
I sometimes wonder if the year is 1912 or 2012. I always feel like, even in this day and age, that people still don't get Bipolar Disorder. They don't 'get' what it's about. After all these years, all the breakthroughs of modern medicine, they still think you're a "psycho." It's still unacceptable to be bipolar, and people still use the phrase "why are you so bipolar today?" Like it's an adjective.
Is it OK to insinuate that someone is suffering from Bipolar Disorder because they're a little off? Or maybe because they're up and down with their mood? Or my personal favorite, because the weather is cloudy and dreary so they're going to have a "bipolar day?"
Ahhh such ignorance in our society. Even today, in 2012 it still exists.
That frightens me. Scares me to think that even as my daughter matures and grows into a woman, that she herself could face life in this ignorant world. We always seem to think we have evolved as a society, when in reality, we have only gone backwards.
I'm embarrassed to admit, especially from someone who has been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder since 2004, that I just recently learned that Bipolar Disorder is not a psychological/psychiatric "problem," but a medical illness; a disease. It took many decades, if not centuries, for the medical communities to realize that Diabetes wasn't psychiatric/psychological, but a medical illness/diasease as well. Look at the breakthroughs with Diabetes? I only hope the same breakthroughs will emerse as the studies and treatments for Bipolar Disorder progress, where the judgment and discriminatory attitude will fade and acceptance will be great. But even after all this time, after everything that has been studied and learned about Bipolar Disorder, people still criticize you for something you cannot control.
Imagine sitting in a job interview and openly saying, "oh, have I mentioned that I have Bipolar Disorder and I will need to take my medication regularly"—what they would say, or worse, if you would even be offered the job? However, someone with Diabetes turning around and saying the exact same thing, would almost be sympathized with instead.
Why are people suffering from Bipolar Disorder looked down upon? What makes us so different from anybody else with a medical illness/disease? We can't control it because aren't we born this way?
If you haven't yet seen the movie, A Beautiful Mind with Russell Crowe, I beg of you to rent it or download it NOW. It shows a man, a mathematical genius who suffers from schizophrenia, Dr. John Nash, in the 1950s. Back when the common 'medication' was shock treatments. It's a heartwarming story, but a story of sadness and despair at the same time. This was before what doctors even knew what schizophrenia was like, or what it involved. Like schizophrenia, bipolar disorder is not curable, but treatable.
As I started my medication in the past few months I admit, that sometimes I feel like a pharmacist as I look down into my hand at all of those pills and how I have to pop them in my mouth every single day. It's tough because I went from a woman never having to take any pills, to taking a handful everyday and every night. It has turned into an eye opening experience.
It's real. It has been an emotional rollercoaster.
I have to overcome my fear of what "people will think" about me. Otherwise I will drive myself crazy. I have spent an entire lifetime worrying about what other people think, but I can no longer worry about them, but worry about myself, my family and my support group. I have to move forward for myself—I need to think and do for myself first before I can do for others. I have spent too many years putting myself last, and others first. Others that don't even matter in my life.
Can I do this? Can I really do this? Only time will tell.
Is it OK to insinuate that someone is suffering from Bipolar Disorder because they're a little off? Or maybe because they're up and down with their mood? Or my personal favorite, because the weather is cloudy and dreary so they're going to have a "bipolar day?"
Ahhh such ignorance in our society. Even today, in 2012 it still exists.
That frightens me. Scares me to think that even as my daughter matures and grows into a woman, that she herself could face life in this ignorant world. We always seem to think we have evolved as a society, when in reality, we have only gone backwards.
I'm embarrassed to admit, especially from someone who has been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder since 2004, that I just recently learned that Bipolar Disorder is not a psychological/psychiatric "problem," but a medical illness; a disease. It took many decades, if not centuries, for the medical communities to realize that Diabetes wasn't psychiatric/psychological, but a medical illness/diasease as well. Look at the breakthroughs with Diabetes? I only hope the same breakthroughs will emerse as the studies and treatments for Bipolar Disorder progress, where the judgment and discriminatory attitude will fade and acceptance will be great. But even after all this time, after everything that has been studied and learned about Bipolar Disorder, people still criticize you for something you cannot control.
Imagine sitting in a job interview and openly saying, "oh, have I mentioned that I have Bipolar Disorder and I will need to take my medication regularly"—what they would say, or worse, if you would even be offered the job? However, someone with Diabetes turning around and saying the exact same thing, would almost be sympathized with instead.
Why are people suffering from Bipolar Disorder looked down upon? What makes us so different from anybody else with a medical illness/disease? We can't control it because aren't we born this way?
If you haven't yet seen the movie, A Beautiful Mind with Russell Crowe, I beg of you to rent it or download it NOW. It shows a man, a mathematical genius who suffers from schizophrenia, Dr. John Nash, in the 1950s. Back when the common 'medication' was shock treatments. It's a heartwarming story, but a story of sadness and despair at the same time. This was before what doctors even knew what schizophrenia was like, or what it involved. Like schizophrenia, bipolar disorder is not curable, but treatable.
As I started my medication in the past few months I admit, that sometimes I feel like a pharmacist as I look down into my hand at all of those pills and how I have to pop them in my mouth every single day. It's tough because I went from a woman never having to take any pills, to taking a handful everyday and every night. It has turned into an eye opening experience.
But I continue to take them because I feel and see the results. I now know that they are working; working to make me better and enrich my life even more. I feel happier than I've felt in a very long time. Listening to my husband repeatedly tell me how he's happy to have "me back" and feeling back to 'normal' again is tough to hear, I know this, but after the past year or so, how things have escalated and have gotten worse in our lives, only makes me aware of what he and my daughter have had to endure and live through for so long. Writing this blog is making me recognize it and see it all over again. As I sit and write it all down and relive it all over again, has become very emotional for me, not just in my mind, but in my heart. I know it's beneficial so I will continue on and know that it will only help in my recovery.
It's real. It has been an emotional rollercoaster.
I have to overcome my fear of what "people will think" about me. Otherwise I will drive myself crazy. I have spent an entire lifetime worrying about what other people think, but I can no longer worry about them, but worry about myself, my family and my support group. I have to move forward for myself—I need to think and do for myself first before I can do for others. I have spent too many years putting myself last, and others first. Others that don't even matter in my life.
Can I do this? Can I really do this? Only time will tell.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
The Hospital.
As I sit here listening to the calmness of classical music, I feel I'm ready to discuss my recent 'visit' to the hospital—the psychiatric hospital. I only hope that opening up about this will help others, maybe help them when they're desperate and cry for outside help from family. Family can only do so much when you're that low, when you've hit rock bottom. But sometimes we need more than that, on a professional level.
It was early December and by that point I wasn't on my medication yet, I hadn't been seeing a therapist so considering I was 'raw' during that time in my life, was a challenge. Even though I had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder in 2004, I never thought it would come back. I know that sounds naive and ignorant of me, but in my mind and my heart, I had hoped it would "go away."
It didn't. It came back full force.
I wasn't back on the medication (from 2004) because in 2006, I felt great. Always in a good mood and my normal self and smiling, always laughing and smiling. It was a huge transition for me and at that time, my husband was in the middle of changing jobs, so for 3 long months, we had to go without health insurance. It was tough, but we managed. Regardless, trying to pay for my medication out of pocket would have cost us over $300+ per month. Well, I don't know about you, but I can't imagine that many people could afford that during tough economic times—even back then. Maybe some could, but for us, at that time—especially while my husband was in the middle of changing jobs/employer—it wasn't possible, and since I was feeling 'good,' we felt it wasn't necessary.
Until the past year when my world started to come tumbling down. We thought it might be situational—with my dad's cancer, our finances turning to shit, my brother completely ostracizing himself from our family and of course my close friends.
As it progressively got worse, we realized it wasn't situational—my dad was getting better (at that time), my brother and I had a good relationship, and although our finances weren't improving much, overall they still weren't THAT bad. Then after 3 weeks of my friend and I having our "timeout" (as he calls it), we became friends again. I loved it, talking with him again, sharing our most intimate secrets felt good—at least at that time.
(At this point, I have now switched to Madonna's Ray of Light album as I needed some music a little more upbeat)
As the months passed, it had gotten so bad that I couldn't stop crying. Crying so loud and so hard that it brought me into the brink of a crying depressed stupor. It scared my daughter to the point that out of desperation, she would call my husband at work and insist that he come home immediately, as she herself was crying so hard, that my husband would race home to make sure I was alright. They were both scared for my safety. Unfortunately, this had become a common sequence in our household. Seeing me so upset and so depressed had become a common nightly 'ritual.'
By December, we all knew I had reached rock bottom. They could no longer help me. It had to be taken to a new level; a professional level. One night as my husband was racing home to assist me—again—he looked at me and asked me point blank, if I wanted to be taken to the emergency room. It was then that I knew it was serious and I was ready to admit that I had a problem; even I couldn't take it any longer. I simply replied "yes."
It was time.
Once I was there—for over 2+ hours—they did nothing. Sent me on my way with a packet of what they thought was proper literature to help during my depression. Only to be repeated a few weeks later.
Again, on my way home after 2+ hours of sitting and patiently waiting in the waiting room—all while I was sitting there still depressed and crying—taken back to a room with what they thought was a calming environment with tacky puke-like light green paint on the walls, with an armed guard sitting only a few feet away from me. I guess they thought I'd turn to violence—and perhaps that's a common reaction of the majority of patients who are admitted as 'psychiatric patients.' It's a humiliating experience, I assure you. Nevertheless, we felt it was necessary.
And again, my desperation and cry for help only turned to disappointment as I was released and on my way home with a packet filled with literature and brochures. On either occasion, I never took them out of the envelope, even though it was recommended by the emergency room physician. I don't want to sit there reading bullshit brochures and literature, I just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up. Because at that time, that moment, I had contemplated suicide, but thankfully never did anything about it, nor did my thoughts go further than that moment in time. A moment in which I couldn't stand the pain anymore. I just wanted the pain to end.
Towards the end of December, we went back for a third visit to the emergency room. Not only was my husband insistent that something be done immediately, I agreed and was just as persistent as he was. As my poor scared daughter sat alone in the waiting area, we knew that something needed to happen beyond the ER—a drastic solution. I hated every minute of it, but as we both looked at each other, with the doctor standing there watching us, watching our response, we decided the best treatment for me at that time was to voluntarily admit myself to the in-patient psychiatric hospital.
One of the most difficult decisions to make in anybody's lifetime. Sometimes you just have to sit back and peruse what the best option is for you, and for us and me at that time, was willingly admit myself to this facility.
We waited for another hour before I was escorted and driven by a security guard in a locked, 'secure' vehicle. I felt like a prisoner, a prisoner in my own clothing wanting to get well. It had to be done. So I went along with a vengeance because I was hoping and praying that I would get the help I desperately needed.
Upon arrival to the hospital at 11 p.m. at night, I was starving. I hadn't eaten a thing all day, so to have a hot meal delivered to me that evening as I arrived, was nothing short of heaven. I immediately thought to myself what a hospitable facility this was. It couldn't be so bad—could it?
Boy, was I wrong.
As I went through a series of body searches, removal of my jewelry and physical exams, I kept thinking to myself, I'm not crazy, why must I endure this? I'm here on my own accord. Shouldn't I be welcome with open arms and treated like a queen? Ha. No.
They didn't see it that way, because this was protocol for them. They didn't care that I came from an upper middle-class background, or that I had a college educaton. I was there as an equal, just like the other patients.
It was a humiliating and humbling experience, let me assure you. But I kept trying to convince myself that it was for the best. I would get better. Miraculously healed.
Bullshit.
The next day I sat through what felt like endless group sessions. Eating lunch in surgical scrubs by myself with plastic utensils, was a lonely experience—even though I wasn't hungry, they made it quite clear that I had to eat at a certain time or I would lose the privilege until dinner time.
Ugh.
As I continued to eat their hideous over-starched quintessential hospital food, I headed towards another grueling group therapy session. Did they help? Not for me. But sitting there listening to everyone's story, everyone's plight and how they got there was nothing short of heart wrenching. All I kept saying to myself while listening to their story was, "I don't belong here. I am literally wasting money being here."
I fooled the psychiatrist. I made them think it was all a mistake, that I shouldn't be there.
Guess what? It worked. He released me that day. I couldn't take another minute of the usual escort to take a shower and to go to the bathroom. I felt like a child.
Was it wrong of me to "fool" the psychiatrist? Of course it was, but I felt I wasn't getting the help or the medication that I needed. To them, I was simply a nameless patient. Now don't get me wrong, I'm sure I am over exaggerating here, but at that time, it was real to me. It was what I felt and thought.
The only person that helped me throughout my short stay was my counselor—whom I didn't speak with until my discharge. He actually showed me he cared. Actually tried to help me with my discharge and my treatment. He gave me a list of several therapists and psychologists that I could call. We both realized what I needed was a therapist, not medication alone—which I must mention that no additional medication was prescribed by the hospital psychiatrist. My initial medications were prescribed by my internist, not a psychiatrist or psychiatric nurse. Clearly, and admittedly, he was out of his realm of expertise, but wanted to help me nonetheless.
After receiving my list of therapists, I immediately made that call the following week—OK, not immediately but soon enough. I admit, I was sitting on it for a few days. I just didn't have the energy to call, even though I knew in the back of my mind that it needed to be done. Thankfully my husband was there to continually push me.
As I made the appointment with a therapist, I was lucky enough to find the perfect fit from the first therapist I chose. Therapists are like a marriage—it has to be the right fit in order for it to work and succeed.
I have been seeing her since March and so far, I'm very happy with the results. I may get into that for another time, but for now, just know that our sessions have been helpful to me.
In the meantime, she hooked me up with a psychiatric nurse to monitor and prescribe new medications. It was a trial and error sort of thing, but we now know what works for me and so far—knock on wood—have been a godsend.
In summary, after my stay at the psychiatric facility—even though during my stay I felt it was a waste of time—I realized afterwards that drastic measures needed to be taken in order to 'save' my sanity—no pun intended.
If you're not seeing a therapist, make the appointment immediately! Medication can only be helpful if you're regularly seeing a therapist side-by-side with your meds. Trust me! We're human, we need to talk it out and to talk to a professional with unbaised opinions, and it works!!!
Good luck!
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
It was early December and by that point I wasn't on my medication yet, I hadn't been seeing a therapist so considering I was 'raw' during that time in my life, was a challenge. Even though I had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder in 2004, I never thought it would come back. I know that sounds naive and ignorant of me, but in my mind and my heart, I had hoped it would "go away."
It didn't. It came back full force.
I wasn't back on the medication (from 2004) because in 2006, I felt great. Always in a good mood and my normal self and smiling, always laughing and smiling. It was a huge transition for me and at that time, my husband was in the middle of changing jobs, so for 3 long months, we had to go without health insurance. It was tough, but we managed. Regardless, trying to pay for my medication out of pocket would have cost us over $300+ per month. Well, I don't know about you, but I can't imagine that many people could afford that during tough economic times—even back then. Maybe some could, but for us, at that time—especially while my husband was in the middle of changing jobs/employer—it wasn't possible, and since I was feeling 'good,' we felt it wasn't necessary.
Until the past year when my world started to come tumbling down. We thought it might be situational—with my dad's cancer, our finances turning to shit, my brother completely ostracizing himself from our family and of course my close friends.
As it progressively got worse, we realized it wasn't situational—my dad was getting better (at that time), my brother and I had a good relationship, and although our finances weren't improving much, overall they still weren't THAT bad. Then after 3 weeks of my friend and I having our "timeout" (as he calls it), we became friends again. I loved it, talking with him again, sharing our most intimate secrets felt good—at least at that time.
(At this point, I have now switched to Madonna's Ray of Light album as I needed some music a little more upbeat)
As the months passed, it had gotten so bad that I couldn't stop crying. Crying so loud and so hard that it brought me into the brink of a crying depressed stupor. It scared my daughter to the point that out of desperation, she would call my husband at work and insist that he come home immediately, as she herself was crying so hard, that my husband would race home to make sure I was alright. They were both scared for my safety. Unfortunately, this had become a common sequence in our household. Seeing me so upset and so depressed had become a common nightly 'ritual.'
By December, we all knew I had reached rock bottom. They could no longer help me. It had to be taken to a new level; a professional level. One night as my husband was racing home to assist me—again—he looked at me and asked me point blank, if I wanted to be taken to the emergency room. It was then that I knew it was serious and I was ready to admit that I had a problem; even I couldn't take it any longer. I simply replied "yes."
It was time.
Once I was there—for over 2+ hours—they did nothing. Sent me on my way with a packet of what they thought was proper literature to help during my depression. Only to be repeated a few weeks later.
Again, on my way home after 2+ hours of sitting and patiently waiting in the waiting room—all while I was sitting there still depressed and crying—taken back to a room with what they thought was a calming environment with tacky puke-like light green paint on the walls, with an armed guard sitting only a few feet away from me. I guess they thought I'd turn to violence—and perhaps that's a common reaction of the majority of patients who are admitted as 'psychiatric patients.' It's a humiliating experience, I assure you. Nevertheless, we felt it was necessary.
And again, my desperation and cry for help only turned to disappointment as I was released and on my way home with a packet filled with literature and brochures. On either occasion, I never took them out of the envelope, even though it was recommended by the emergency room physician. I don't want to sit there reading bullshit brochures and literature, I just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up. Because at that time, that moment, I had contemplated suicide, but thankfully never did anything about it, nor did my thoughts go further than that moment in time. A moment in which I couldn't stand the pain anymore. I just wanted the pain to end.
Towards the end of December, we went back for a third visit to the emergency room. Not only was my husband insistent that something be done immediately, I agreed and was just as persistent as he was. As my poor scared daughter sat alone in the waiting area, we knew that something needed to happen beyond the ER—a drastic solution. I hated every minute of it, but as we both looked at each other, with the doctor standing there watching us, watching our response, we decided the best treatment for me at that time was to voluntarily admit myself to the in-patient psychiatric hospital.
One of the most difficult decisions to make in anybody's lifetime. Sometimes you just have to sit back and peruse what the best option is for you, and for us and me at that time, was willingly admit myself to this facility.
We waited for another hour before I was escorted and driven by a security guard in a locked, 'secure' vehicle. I felt like a prisoner, a prisoner in my own clothing wanting to get well. It had to be done. So I went along with a vengeance because I was hoping and praying that I would get the help I desperately needed.
Upon arrival to the hospital at 11 p.m. at night, I was starving. I hadn't eaten a thing all day, so to have a hot meal delivered to me that evening as I arrived, was nothing short of heaven. I immediately thought to myself what a hospitable facility this was. It couldn't be so bad—could it?
Boy, was I wrong.
As I went through a series of body searches, removal of my jewelry and physical exams, I kept thinking to myself, I'm not crazy, why must I endure this? I'm here on my own accord. Shouldn't I be welcome with open arms and treated like a queen? Ha. No.
They didn't see it that way, because this was protocol for them. They didn't care that I came from an upper middle-class background, or that I had a college educaton. I was there as an equal, just like the other patients.
It was a humiliating and humbling experience, let me assure you. But I kept trying to convince myself that it was for the best. I would get better. Miraculously healed.
Bullshit.
The next day I sat through what felt like endless group sessions. Eating lunch in surgical scrubs by myself with plastic utensils, was a lonely experience—even though I wasn't hungry, they made it quite clear that I had to eat at a certain time or I would lose the privilege until dinner time.
Ugh.
As I continued to eat their hideous over-starched quintessential hospital food, I headed towards another grueling group therapy session. Did they help? Not for me. But sitting there listening to everyone's story, everyone's plight and how they got there was nothing short of heart wrenching. All I kept saying to myself while listening to their story was, "I don't belong here. I am literally wasting money being here."
I fooled the psychiatrist. I made them think it was all a mistake, that I shouldn't be there.
Guess what? It worked. He released me that day. I couldn't take another minute of the usual escort to take a shower and to go to the bathroom. I felt like a child.
Was it wrong of me to "fool" the psychiatrist? Of course it was, but I felt I wasn't getting the help or the medication that I needed. To them, I was simply a nameless patient. Now don't get me wrong, I'm sure I am over exaggerating here, but at that time, it was real to me. It was what I felt and thought.
The only person that helped me throughout my short stay was my counselor—whom I didn't speak with until my discharge. He actually showed me he cared. Actually tried to help me with my discharge and my treatment. He gave me a list of several therapists and psychologists that I could call. We both realized what I needed was a therapist, not medication alone—which I must mention that no additional medication was prescribed by the hospital psychiatrist. My initial medications were prescribed by my internist, not a psychiatrist or psychiatric nurse. Clearly, and admittedly, he was out of his realm of expertise, but wanted to help me nonetheless.
After receiving my list of therapists, I immediately made that call the following week—OK, not immediately but soon enough. I admit, I was sitting on it for a few days. I just didn't have the energy to call, even though I knew in the back of my mind that it needed to be done. Thankfully my husband was there to continually push me.
As I made the appointment with a therapist, I was lucky enough to find the perfect fit from the first therapist I chose. Therapists are like a marriage—it has to be the right fit in order for it to work and succeed.
I have been seeing her since March and so far, I'm very happy with the results. I may get into that for another time, but for now, just know that our sessions have been helpful to me.
In the meantime, she hooked me up with a psychiatric nurse to monitor and prescribe new medications. It was a trial and error sort of thing, but we now know what works for me and so far—knock on wood—have been a godsend.
In summary, after my stay at the psychiatric facility—even though during my stay I felt it was a waste of time—I realized afterwards that drastic measures needed to be taken in order to 'save' my sanity—no pun intended.
If you're not seeing a therapist, make the appointment immediately! Medication can only be helpful if you're regularly seeing a therapist side-by-side with your meds. Trust me! We're human, we need to talk it out and to talk to a professional with unbaised opinions, and it works!!!
Good luck!
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Friday, May 18, 2012
Euphoria
That word, what does it mean to you? According to the dictionary, it is defined as this:
eu•pho•ri•a
noun
a feeling or state of intense excitement and happiness:
the euphoria of success will fuel your desire to continue training
ORIGIN late 17th century (denoting well-being produced in a sick person by the use of drugs): modern Latin, from Greek, from euphoros 'borne well, healthy,' from eu 'well' + pherein 'to bear.'
Yup, that's it in a nutshell.
This past week, I felt exactly that way. I was on top of the world! Nothing could go wrong. It was the best feeling I've had in several months.
But then it changed. All of a sudden, it felt like my world came tumbling down—not literally of course, but my mood just plummeted. What was going on with me? How could I go from being way up on the charts, to way down on the charts? For those of you who are suffering from Bipolar Disorder will know that this is consistent with the disease. But at the time that it's happening, you really don't look at it that way. You continually ask yourself this common question—why? Why is this happening to me—again!
This is how I felt:
Even though this is an abstract painting that I painted several years ago, it's still how I felt that day and that night. Which unfortunately, continued into yesterday. An abstract of someone—a display of 'funkiness' running through my mind. Today? I feel a lot better, but again, as the day progresses, only time will tell.
Now we all know that there's a chemical in your brain that produces how we feel, how we think, and how we react. Please don't ask me what this is called, but at this point, does it really matter? We know it's there, and we now know why, so in my eyes, if it's happening, it's real.
A few nights ago, after spending the entire day feeling euphoric, all of a sudden I was in a depressed mood. So depressed, that I started crying—crying for no apparent reason whatsoever. I couldn't understand it. How could I feel so invigorated throughout the day, only to cry for no reason? As I was crying, I immediately went into our bedroom and woke my husband up from a deep sleep. I asked him to assist me during my time of need. Thankfully, he was there as usual, helping me cope.
Thank goodness he was there to help me because in my head, I kept thinking what is wrong with me and why am I feeling this way. Even to him, with what I have been going through these past several months, was kind of difficult for him to comprehend. Do I blame him? Of course not. But as we were talking it out, he understood and realized he needed to be there and talk me down. I've come to the point where 'talking me down' is something that he must do.
And thankfully, it always works. Even during my most agitated state, it works.
As I continue with my medication, I am persisting through this disease on a daily basis.
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
eu•pho•ri•a
noun
a feeling or state of intense excitement and happiness:
the euphoria of success will fuel your desire to continue training
ORIGIN late 17th century (denoting well-being produced in a sick person by the use of drugs): modern Latin, from Greek, from euphoros 'borne well, healthy,' from eu 'well' + pherein 'to bear.'
Yup, that's it in a nutshell.
This past week, I felt exactly that way. I was on top of the world! Nothing could go wrong. It was the best feeling I've had in several months.
But then it changed. All of a sudden, it felt like my world came tumbling down—not literally of course, but my mood just plummeted. What was going on with me? How could I go from being way up on the charts, to way down on the charts? For those of you who are suffering from Bipolar Disorder will know that this is consistent with the disease. But at the time that it's happening, you really don't look at it that way. You continually ask yourself this common question—why? Why is this happening to me—again!
This is how I felt:
acrylic on canvas 2008 • untitled • artist – me
Even though this is an abstract painting that I painted several years ago, it's still how I felt that day and that night. Which unfortunately, continued into yesterday. An abstract of someone—a display of 'funkiness' running through my mind. Today? I feel a lot better, but again, as the day progresses, only time will tell.
Now we all know that there's a chemical in your brain that produces how we feel, how we think, and how we react. Please don't ask me what this is called, but at this point, does it really matter? We know it's there, and we now know why, so in my eyes, if it's happening, it's real.
A few nights ago, after spending the entire day feeling euphoric, all of a sudden I was in a depressed mood. So depressed, that I started crying—crying for no apparent reason whatsoever. I couldn't understand it. How could I feel so invigorated throughout the day, only to cry for no reason? As I was crying, I immediately went into our bedroom and woke my husband up from a deep sleep. I asked him to assist me during my time of need. Thankfully, he was there as usual, helping me cope.
Thank goodness he was there to help me because in my head, I kept thinking what is wrong with me and why am I feeling this way. Even to him, with what I have been going through these past several months, was kind of difficult for him to comprehend. Do I blame him? Of course not. But as we were talking it out, he understood and realized he needed to be there and talk me down. I've come to the point where 'talking me down' is something that he must do.
And thankfully, it always works. Even during my most agitated state, it works.
As I continue with my medication, I am persisting through this disease on a daily basis.
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