a thought. or, well, maybe a lot of them.
On Monday, Mom and I went to Barnes & Noble so I could grab a frappucino. On our way to the cafe, we ran across a table full of paperbacks on sale, a buy-2-get-the-3rd-free type thing. The table had an incredible number of books about bipolar disorder and depression and, in the midst of these, Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser. I'd wanted to read Fast Food Nation for quite a while, so I picked that one up, and we decided on two other books, both about women with bipolar disorder: Detour: My Bipolar Road Trip in 4-D by Lizzie Simon and An Unquiet Mind by Kay Redfield Jamison. These books are both on my list of books to buy, so I was quite excited.
I've started on Detour which looks promising as a good book, and I've also started on An Unquiet Mind. Reading books on all this madness has got me thinking about some things more than I generally do. A few weeks ago, I read a secret on PostSecret that said something like, "I've recovered from my mental illness. It's been a part of me for so long that I have no idea who I am anymore." This thought has been floating around in my mind since then, and after starting these books, I've been thinking of it more.
If someone came up to me and said, "We've found a cure for bipolar disorder, and we'd like to give it to you for free," I honestly can't say that I know what my decision would be. I don't know what it's like to not have this. Bipolar disorder is a part of me. It's a vicious companion and I'm sure I take thousands of dollars worth of drugs each year to keep myself stabilized, but I've always known that this is how I am and it's irreversible, so I make the best of it. If anything, it's made me stronger than I could have ever thought possible and given me something to write about it.
Another worry has to do with the writing. Many of the world's greatest writers, singers, musicians, painters, sculptors, dancers, actors, politicians, leaders, and philosophers have had psychiatric disorders. I'm afraid I'll lose this creative spark that I've been so blessed with. I'm afraid I will not be myself anymore. If my madness is also responsible for my creativity, is it worth giving it up?
Yes, I'm quite aware that I overanalyze far too many things and that a cure or vaccine or whatever will probably not be discovered in my lifetime, but it's such an interesting thing to think about, don't you think?
On the other hand, if my child were to be diagnosed with bipolar disorder or depression or any psychiatric disorder in general, I would want her to have a cure. I wouldn't want her to grow up with the mood swings, or months full of depression, or the weeks of destructive mania, or the insufferable times when the two clash together, creating a mixed state. I would want her to be happy and healthy.
It doesn't make any sense to me, either. Why would I deny myself a cure and give it to my child in a heartbeat? I suppose I've always been afraid of change, and stubborn in changing my beliefs or personality, but this is different. This is like choosing between a shot to get rid of diabetes or a life full of insulin shots and watching everything that I eat.
Maybe this is a mark of my bipolar disorder. Maybe wanting to keep my illness rather than getting rid of it is a trait of madness. I honestly don't know.
In other news, the weather has cooled off beyond anyone's expectations. The low for tonight is 69 degrees, my absentminded professor has sent out an announcement telling the class that he's not counting anyone absent and not to worry about anything, I've caught up on my math homework, and have most of my notes copied down. Life is beautiful.
I've started on Detour which looks promising as a good book, and I've also started on An Unquiet Mind. Reading books on all this madness has got me thinking about some things more than I generally do. A few weeks ago, I read a secret on PostSecret that said something like, "I've recovered from my mental illness. It's been a part of me for so long that I have no idea who I am anymore." This thought has been floating around in my mind since then, and after starting these books, I've been thinking of it more.
If someone came up to me and said, "We've found a cure for bipolar disorder, and we'd like to give it to you for free," I honestly can't say that I know what my decision would be. I don't know what it's like to not have this. Bipolar disorder is a part of me. It's a vicious companion and I'm sure I take thousands of dollars worth of drugs each year to keep myself stabilized, but I've always known that this is how I am and it's irreversible, so I make the best of it. If anything, it's made me stronger than I could have ever thought possible and given me something to write about it.
Another worry has to do with the writing. Many of the world's greatest writers, singers, musicians, painters, sculptors, dancers, actors, politicians, leaders, and philosophers have had psychiatric disorders. I'm afraid I'll lose this creative spark that I've been so blessed with. I'm afraid I will not be myself anymore. If my madness is also responsible for my creativity, is it worth giving it up?
Yes, I'm quite aware that I overanalyze far too many things and that a cure or vaccine or whatever will probably not be discovered in my lifetime, but it's such an interesting thing to think about, don't you think?
On the other hand, if my child were to be diagnosed with bipolar disorder or depression or any psychiatric disorder in general, I would want her to have a cure. I wouldn't want her to grow up with the mood swings, or months full of depression, or the weeks of destructive mania, or the insufferable times when the two clash together, creating a mixed state. I would want her to be happy and healthy.
It doesn't make any sense to me, either. Why would I deny myself a cure and give it to my child in a heartbeat? I suppose I've always been afraid of change, and stubborn in changing my beliefs or personality, but this is different. This is like choosing between a shot to get rid of diabetes or a life full of insulin shots and watching everything that I eat.
Maybe this is a mark of my bipolar disorder. Maybe wanting to keep my illness rather than getting rid of it is a trait of madness. I honestly don't know.
In other news, the weather has cooled off beyond anyone's expectations. The low for tonight is 69 degrees, my absentminded professor has sent out an announcement telling the class that he's not counting anyone absent and not to worry about anything, I've caught up on my math homework, and have most of my notes copied down. Life is beautiful.
posted by Crazy In Shreveport at 6:31 PM
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