I'm happy.
Only someone with bipolar disorder would say that and then frown, questioning, "Is it normal happy? Or should I be worried?"
Because happy to someone with BiPD can quickly give way to euphoria and sail right on over to delusional.
Just a couple weeks ago, I found myself at the other end of that emotional continuum, bottoming out. I stopped getting up early to go to the gym. I crawled in bed early at night. The knitting and the novel sat untouched on the coffee table. The loud giggly behavior of a 4-year-old scratched against my brain like fork tines scraping a ceramic plate. Talking took effort. Even breathing deep seemed a hassle.
Even though I wanted to sink under the covers and sleep to escape, I took five minutes to email my psychiatrist and ask for help. I'm so glad I did. Within 24 hours, he had called in a new script and suggested I take a fish-oil supplement (studies have shown people in countries where a lot of fish is consumed have lower rates of depression). And my therapist encouraged me to get as much exercise and soak up as much sunlight as I can.
My mantra of the past few days has been very Nike-esque. Just do it. Whatever it is. Even if you don't want to. Do it.
I picked up the knitting. Felt a little better. Finished a good book while sitting in a sunny room. The fog started to lift. Cleaned the house. Felt pretty good. Reorganized the kitchen cabinets. And that's where I questioned...is this what the normal me is supposed to feel like? Or is a hypomania kicking in?
I'm not giddy. That's probably a clue. I'm trying not to question my motivation and behavior, hoping to just enjoy it. While it lasts.
Only someone with bipolar disorder would say that and then frown, questioning, "Is it normal happy? Or should I be worried?"
Because happy to someone with BiPD can quickly give way to euphoria and sail right on over to delusional.
Just a couple weeks ago, I found myself at the other end of that emotional continuum, bottoming out. I stopped getting up early to go to the gym. I crawled in bed early at night. The knitting and the novel sat untouched on the coffee table. The loud giggly behavior of a 4-year-old scratched against my brain like fork tines scraping a ceramic plate. Talking took effort. Even breathing deep seemed a hassle.
Even though I wanted to sink under the covers and sleep to escape, I took five minutes to email my psychiatrist and ask for help. I'm so glad I did. Within 24 hours, he had called in a new script and suggested I take a fish-oil supplement (studies have shown people in countries where a lot of fish is consumed have lower rates of depression). And my therapist encouraged me to get as much exercise and soak up as much sunlight as I can.
My mantra of the past few days has been very Nike-esque. Just do it. Whatever it is. Even if you don't want to. Do it.
I picked up the knitting. Felt a little better. Finished a good book while sitting in a sunny room. The fog started to lift. Cleaned the house. Felt pretty good. Reorganized the kitchen cabinets. And that's where I questioned...is this what the normal me is supposed to feel like? Or is a hypomania kicking in?
I'm not giddy. That's probably a clue. I'm trying not to question my motivation and behavior, hoping to just enjoy it. While it lasts.
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