…I’m crazy. Papers and everything.
That might need a minor explanation. I haven’t been touring mental institutions or anything. I don’t hear the voices of Jesus, my dead dog or the alien overlords urging me to kill or steal. I am not utterly convinced that I am the reincarnation of Napoleon. I’m far too mundane for that sort of thing. It might at least make me feel more interesting.
However, I do actually have documentation that states I am bipolar, and have a pile of pretty pills that I am supposed to take for that condition. Or will, once they’re done tinkering. For anyone who has had the luxury of not being diagnosed with such things, or if you have an absolute faith in medical science and/or have seen too many episodes of House or E.R., I’ll let you in on a little secret: psychiatric meds involve a lot more mad science than you probably realize. “We’ll try this one, and scale up the dose slowly. Assuming you don’t stroke out, break out in hives, or go berserk and kill someone, then we’ll add this pill, and work it up. If you’re not feeling better yet, we’ll either add this pill, or scale you off one of the other two, then swap it for this one.” Repeat until you find the cocktail that makes you feel almost like a human being, or what you believe a human being to feel like if you are one of those folks like myself who have always been off and due to lack of financial ability, lack of access, or pure bullheadedness didn’t seek treatment until later in life.
I’m not particularly affected by this. We’ll see how well the meds work. Maybe I’ll be more functional. I don’t know, and to be honest, I’m not sure I care at this stage. What does bother me about this?
I feel old. It’s stupid, and it’s a ridiculous thing to be concerned with, but at the age of 36, you shouldn’t be crawling out of bed every morning to cycle through a series of six (and potentially soon to be eight or more) pill bottles and aspirators. Those little boxes with the daily doses and letters for the days of the week are for 60+ year olds. Not me, no sir. Or so I think. Then I remember that I’m supposed to do all that if I want to stay alive and have any hope of not being completely batshit insane – in the bad, talking to Jesus and sticking my hand in my shirt way – and shrug.
On the bright side, however, this is the first time in a month I’ve managed to actually drag myself to the keyboard and put anything of value on the screen, so perhaps it’s working and worthwhile. Time will tell.