The new life of the lost and found

I haven’t touched this blog in years, so it’s a bit of a revival. I’ve been thrust into life change, and have been left wanting to talk about it.... so perhaps this will be cathartic for me (and hopefully helpful or at least entertaining to you, dear reader).

I have Bipolar Disorder. This is a label I've been fighting against for a year, with little success I might add. You want the honest truth? It makes me feel angry at my own brain chemistry, my life now permanently branded with this unending rift. I am sensible and logical, so I know that I will be fine if I keep going on this path, but my irrationality prevails as of late, and I am succumb to the grief of a life not lived - a life without a bedtime that is positively geriatric, a life without wondering if my ambition is pure or tainted by mania, a life without carrying around the chance that I might end up like my cousin one day, simply put - a life.

I am at work at the moment, though these days my physical presence here means little in the way of what I accomplish. I have stretched 6 hours' worth of work to make 40 hours pass, and I feel a looming doomsday coming, the day my charade is no longer accepted. Instead of thinking about projects and reports, I linger in the twilight mood, obsessed with what is, what was, and what never will be. Today, my thoughts shift uncomfortably between the pleasant reassurance of carefully planned routine, and the violent frustration of unwanted discipline that ebbs quietly in the back of my mind. By no request of my own, I am relegated to the nightly routine that is medication, meditation, and sleep. It's unending, unyielding, and misunderstood. My friends and colleagues scoff at my requests to end things by 7, else I lose an entire day following. They believe it is arbitrary, bendable. They think me a crabby old hermit, when the truth is I bask in the light of their friendship and wish nothing more to resume our late night coffee dates, only to be thwarted by my own health (or lack thereof). Missing birthdays, parties, celebrations - one might assume I do not share my compatriots' joy or adulation; I fear for the moment of accusation. Truth be told, part of my mind bucks against the idea of abandoning the comfort that is my blanket, pajamas, and popcorn - but... I can't seem to survey the size of that part. Am I changing? or am I just under the influence of my malignant self?

Flowery prose aside, I am left with 2 constants in my life. First, I now question every motive, every driving factor that tells me to do anything. I can never trust myself again to be excited, lethargic, motivated, or depressed without wondering if I’m being authentic. Second, the rest of life, for better or worse, must take a backseat to my journey. This is the finality of finding help, the punishment for not being able to “hack it” on my own. I have to keep going, though. As many are quick to tell me, my health comes first. However, no one said I can’t be salty about it.