bitching about bipolar, thinking about reality

In which I start off peeved, but end the post on an uncharacteristically positive note. Triggers: wtf happened to the real blahpolar?! Send in the (hot female) Mounties. Tyvm.

A caveat for my readers: none of today’s rants apply to you lovely people.

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You know what (else) I don’t like about the heal thyself without psychiatry brigade? I haven’t seen any so far that have bothered to factor in the severity and differences within a disorder. They don’t even explain their own diagnosis and/or experience. I don’t think that their claims are relevant without those details.

Know what irritates me about bipolar bloggers who are just a little too glib? They usually talk about their mood shifting from one minute or one day to the next, without ever saying ultradian or ultra rapid. Either they’re lying, or they need to fire their psychiatrist for not explaining their diagnosis properly. Or they’re lying. Yup, that’s probably it.

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Let me tell you what annoys me about laypeople without bipolar who blog imperiously about how to handle the disorder. Everything. Blog about caregiving or support or something. No matter how empathetic you are, quit telling us you know how it feels, because you do not. Aim at humility, not humiliation, you fuckers.

I feel guilty about being pissed off by this, but it feels kind of shameful when I’m in a better space and everybody in my ‘real’ life goes well done wow awesome the meds are working it’s fantastic yay! Anything more than quiet happiness/relief about it is just too much pressure and although probably unintended, can feel a tad patronising. Please just say something along the lines of that’s really good to hear, long may it last. Thanks and sorry for all the neurosis.

How about the culprit itself – we all get angry about bipolar, right? The reason is simple to state and complex to understand; it’s a low down, yellow bellied, snake of a dirty thief. I can tell myself it’s fabulous to have the extra perception, empathy and more intense emotions, but I’d trade it all in a heartbeat for peace. Anyway, them’s the breaks and when I don’t hate my own guts, I like myself lots.

Here be foolosophy:

Contrary to appearances, I don’t spend my entire life pissed off. Sometimes I’m morose. Ahem. Nah, you guys must know by now that I laugh a lot. It’s great to come here and rant and vent and eventually along the way, I laugh at myself for being pissy.

I don’t do soft focus inspiring and motivational clichés, I sorta wish I did sometimes, like the way I wish I had some sort of faith. Because then there would always, always be an answer and meaning, whether there was a solution or not. Genetics, nature and nurture made me what I am and the way I perceive what we call reality, isn’t going to change. Without proof, how could it? The answer for me is always no reason and there just isn’t any meaning. Don’t tell anyone, but I secretly look for silver linings, always. I usually find them too, no matter how reluctantly; lessons are silver linings, for instance. Back to chaos and the absence of meaning … u.npredictability becomes reliable when that’s what you expect. Good things are especially sweet when you’ve considered the worst case scenario too. Here’s the best and most optimistic thing though – wait, we need a new paragraph.

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No matter what the hypotheses and observations and analyses, no matter how deep the abyss and how painful the breaks, there are always good things too. People misunderstand karma and expect very clear checks and balances, but that’s not how it works – and I’m not going to explain it here. So, without expecting a payment of good for bad, bad things happen and good things and nobody knows which will happen when – but we can be relatively certain that at some point, something nice will toddle along smiling. At which point, a quote from wry realist, Kurt Vonnegut is the best way I can tell it.

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I tend towards stoicism in a big way, I assume most (all?) survivors do. I can laugh my ass off, make other people laugh, hide, isolate, go completely silent, but I don’t have to do that here and I never want to feel that compulsion either. I get cross with myself for the times when how are you feels like a trick question, because it never is one. It’s courteous and/or concerned. End of. This is my brain on it – maybe yours too:

Please don’t ask how I am, please don’t, I don’t want to lie … oh shit they asked … maybe if I point to that butterfly they’ll forget they asked … let me do a distracting tap dance … shit shit they asked again with ‘are’ in italics, this is serious … what am I gonna do … if I say ‘fine’ it’s a lie, if I tell the truth, it can be a very boring buzzkill, I mean … even I get bored with it … oh fuck there’s no way out …how pathetic is it that I get embarrassed inside my own private thoughts … okay I can do this … I’M FINE, THANKS SO MUCH FOR ASKING AND HOW ARE YOU?

Way to overcomplicate a really simple thing; it’s eye-rollingly bloody unnecessarily exhausting. I’m working on it though, I practise on very close friends.

How are you?
Coping, but feeling crap.
How are you?
Struggling, but I’ll survive.
How are you?
Please leave a message at the beep.
How are you?
Today was a pretty good day.
How are you?
Zomg fine, I really am fine lol whut, this feels weird!

It already feels easier.

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Where was I?

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