Sometimes I think about what I’ll take to the hospital. It’s not that I plan on going or think I’m in need of a higher level of care; it’s that I know I’ll go back someday.
I hate the fickleness of mood that is bipolar II. From hypomania to low-grade depression to thick depression leading to increased mood-stabilizers and then a random, functional day.
I know. That random day is one to be appreciated. For which to be grateful.
That day is today. But I don’t trust it. I am too well accustomed to change to appreciate stability. Well accustomed. Ha. One cannot be “used to it.” I warily expect change yet am smashed by its wave every time, as if I am standing foolishly with my back to the ocean.
I fear tomorrow. I fear that tomorrow will be back deep in the throes of depression and all the worse for today’s normalcy. I feel that I am functioning too highly to be truly on the mend. It must be a fluke. It can’t be hypomania. But health? No. Be realistic.
Should. I should go on a walk so long as I have the energy to do so. Should not. I should not feel like crying. Should. I should be grateful. For so many reasons, but for today in particular.
I WANT TO BE NORMAL.
I don’t care if someday I have clients and they’ll be helped by having a therapist who has suffered, who “gets it.” I don’t. I didn’t sign up for “wounded healer” status. I don’t care that it’s writing material.
I know. No one signed up for it. No one wants it. It’s not okay. And it’s acceptable to be not okay—in an ideal world, anyway. But I’m not so well adjusted as to be okay with it in myself.