It’s been one week since the latest med cocktail has finally kicked in, and I’m scared. The depression end of this lovely bipolar disorder has lasted so long I can’t remember when last I felt good. That was the longest I’ve had a bout of depression since before I was medicated (which has been a very long time). So I’m scared. Instead of just going with it, I’m analyzing it…how long will this last or will it turn into mania? It’s so hard to have hope after being kicked in the stomach so many times. I don’t know anymore how to just accept non-depression, I can’t even call it “happy.”
To add to all this “stinking thinking” (I’m sorry to the person who first said this because I don’t know to whom to attribute the statement), I’m feeling guilty that I feel good. I have a list on Twitter of mental health friends, and so many of them are struggling that I’m almost ashamed to say that I seem to be over this latest period of depression, yet I want them to know that if they just hang on things will get better. I have no trouble telling my non-mental health friends because I’m guessing they got tired of hearing the same old “I feel like shit, but thanks for asking anyway.”
My old friend sabotage is raising it’s ugly head. “I don’t deserve this.” “It won’t last.” “I’ll get through this first week, then bam!, I’ll fall back on my ass.”
I’m hopeful, but I’m scared.
On a side note, my kitties are not happy that I’m no longer depressed because then I don’t spend all day in bed with them anymore. If I just sit on the edge of my bed to put my shoes on, Paris starts encouraging me to lay down and when I get up he harumphs.
“Hope is the dream of a soul awake.” ~ French proverb