It was a grim day last week when the official diagnosis that I had bipolar disorder was uttered by my doctor. Truth be told, I don’t think anyone was surprised; I’ve had depression since the age of fifteen. However, because I listened to the well-meaning but erroneous advice of the people around me instead of seeking professional help, I remained in something like an emotional limbo – sound on the outside, torn from limb to limb within. As a result, I will be taking a breather next week (about bloody time; I haven’t had a decent vacation in almost a decade!) and am currently on mood stabilizers to keep me from turning into either a tear-sodden mess or an irate ball of fury.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, I’ve been told to keep off cola and – horrors! – coffee. Dear Lord, no, no, no…
Not that I really mind. (Do I look as though I have a choice here?) I can survive on hot chocolate, milk tea, and orange juice.
But for the time being, I’ve been told to kick back and take things easy for a spell. It was a comfort that the doctor told me to keep on baking; she agrees that it’s very therapeutic.
In the meantime, any prayers you can spare for me are sincerely appreciated. I’m tired of being so sad, of hating myself all the time.
It is, my friends, time to face the demons and end this cycle of self-hatred and misery once and for all.