Bipolar disorder is a sadistic son-of-a-bitch. You’re walking down the street, whistling a happy tune, and bam! he jumps at you from behind a tree and smacks you in the back with a baseball bat, knocking the breath out of you, slamming you down to the ground. “You think life is good? Well here’s a gut punch to remind you of reality. You think things are going well? How about a kick in the ribs to let you know who’s boss. You have something you cherish? Give it to me, you can’t have it anymore. You are not allowed to feel joy, elation, or bliss unless I say so. This is not mania, this is real happiness. That’s not ok in this brain.“
It’s too much good. I just wrote that sentence in an email to my daughter. Yes, you read that right, too much good. My brain is not trained to handle this amount of joy, so it simply reverts to old routine. It doesn’t matter that my name is really printed in a book, it doesn’t exist. It doesn’t matter that I have a few extra dollars in my bank account, the sales didn’t really happen. I’m worthless, stupid, untalented, graceless….STOP!
And…there’s a kick in the balls for you, Mr. Bipolar Disorder. How about if I remind you who’s in charge here. I am, and I want my happiness back. You can’t have it, I won’t let you take it away. I’ve come too far and learned too much. I win this round.