I don’t know if my official mental health diagnosis is bipolar II – or not. There appears to be no consensus on anything aside from the fact I have emotional dysregulation and severe insomnia issues. In my opinion, those two things are more than enough to make anybody go crazy. But mental health diagnosis or not, my life is full of highs and lows.
It bothers me when I don’t write in my blog. Not because I think my writing is doing anyone a public service, but because this forum is my outlet for internal rumination. And if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s internal rumination.
Over the weekend, I contacted a number of friends asking how they felt when they found out about my overdose. While sometimes the truth hurts, I’m so very grateful for their honesty.
Navigating a lifetime of depression is like being an avid bushwalker and mountain climber. For years on end the scenery is stunning, the flora and fauna breathtaking and the hard yards well rewarded. For short periods of time steep, rocky, unnavigable mountains appear that seem interminable and impossible to navigate. Clambering over invisible rocks always happens in the dark and every inch of your body screams, No! I can’t do it any more! There are people at the summit cheering, saying, Come on – not far now! You know there are people below struggling on the same mountain, or back in the safety of the pretty woods. But on that dark mountain, you’re alone, lost in that sense of hopelessness – completely reliant on voices from afar – and the squabble between the angels on your shoulders.
