Frying Up

Mood Rating: 7/10

Earlier this evening - or last night now - Stephen Fry's new documentary was shown on BBC Two. He's decided to chart his bipolar journey on camera and has roped in a few celebrities to help dispel the sterotype that goes with mental illness.

I have to say, he spoke to a couple of ordinary, everyday people who I would call 'mad'. I'm fortunate in that I don't suffer with hallucinations; at least not yet. Fry interviewed the likes of Carrie Fisher, Robbie Williams and Tony Slattery. Of all of the celebrities, I most identified with Fry himself. I believe that both he and I could fly under the bipolar radar in everyday life. To the untrained eye we appear 'normal' and can function satisfactorally under the watchful gaze of friends and family most of the time.

However, as Stephen Fry found out, it appears to be quite a progressive illness. I don't think that that is mentioned in any medical advice that is readily available, but I've certainly noticed an increase in the cycles.

Now that I know that I have bipolar, I can look back and identify past manic episodes. I believe the first one happened when I was around 14 - a little before my 15th birthday. Unlike the episodes which followed, I know exactly what triggered the 14-year-old 'high'. It's nothing that I wish to discuss, but it was certainly a turning point in my life.

Latter day episodes appear to be triggered by strong relaionship-type periods in my life. Although I've been with my partner since 1995, we've had breaks where we've persued other relationships. One such relationship occurred when I was 19. It was doomed from the start and I ended up sliding down a wall crying. I truly believed that I was having a nervous breakdown.

As I understand, most, if not all, bipolar sufferers will bleat about the manic times being fantastic, which they are. You feel that everyone you know has shared their confidence levels with you and that you're the happiest person alive. I read an article today where one woman described it as, "...being like a child on Christmas morning, times 5," and that's no lie. In general, I am agoraphobic, but when I'm manic I can take on the world and his wife. I can shop alone, walk alone, do whatever I feel like.... alone. It's liberating. Sadly, with the highs come terrible, crippling, suicidal lows.

Although I'm no expert, I'm of the opinion (and I am agreeing with something Fry said) that bipolaroids (that's me and Carrie, Stephen, Robbie and Tony to you) attempt suicide with the intention of it working, rather than play at it as a cry for help. My attempt was unsuccessful, but I meant every slice. I don't fear death, although I do fear pain. At the moment, I don't wish to die, but I wouldn't mind not waking up. Death is truly an easier option than living with this 'thing'.

What I find so difficult is that bipolar disorder is so very selfish. I'm fine in a manic episode, I just want to share my happiness with everyone. It's the lows that are selfish. It's not that you don't care about anyone else, the fact is you just cannot even THINK about anyone but yourself. My husband asked if I'd written a suicide note, but the thought didn't even cross my mind. I was in no fit state to consider who I was leavng behind - people that do indeed deserve an explanation - I just wanted out. I dispise selfishness, yet I can be so incredibly selfish all because of my mind, or maybe what it's lacking.

Sometimes I feel as though if I could just remove my brain, give it a good rinse with cold water, pat it dry and return it to its rightful place, everything would be just peachy. If only it were that easy. Living with something which is incurable is a daily chore. Although I'm pretty level at the moment, the next cycle could be just around the corner. In fact, I'm off out on Thursday night, and I can feel myself beginning to bubble. I'm on the boil at present, but will I be able to remove myself from the heat before I boil and spill? That remains to be seen.

Honesty

Many people hide the fact that they suffer with depression, but in my experience – which is over 16 years-worth – I’ve found that it is far better to hold your hands up and admit that you’re a sufferer.

Depression isn’t like flu; you can’t gloss over it and work through it. Sometimes you just have to swallow your pride and admit that you have a problem, that you’re dealing with it, but that you may need a little extra support. It’s natural for people to want to help and they seem to find some gratification in lending a hand if and when they can.

Of course, not everyone reacts the same way, but a sufferer should give people the chance.

Some people that meet me already know that I have bipolar disorder. I think that they’re expecting a waif-like, nail-biting lunatic – I can see the surprise in their eyes when they find that I am far from that stereotype.

Others are genuinely interested in the disorder and the available treatments. I’m sure that they secretly hope that I’ve had ECT (electroconvulsive therapy); oh, what a talking point that would be for them. Maybe it’s a morbid fascination, but whatever the reason, it’s nice to feel accepted.

I’ve been truly amazed to find out how well liked I am. The amount of people that have helped me over the past few weeks has astounded me. I received an email from one person which brought tears to my eyes. He had honestly only ever seen and concentrated on my good qualities, and he was astounded that I had this affliction. I wish that I’d kept that email now, for when the going gets tough.

If you don’t give people the opportunity to help and support you, then they cannot show how much they truly care.

Honesty really is the best policy.

Lithium Loving Introduction

Mood Rating: 8/10

Tremours, cotton-mouth, unquenchable thirsts, nausea, muscle weakness, sluggish memory, water retention and virtigo... it's all in a day of a lithium-prescribed biopolar sufferer. That'd be me...

Just 3 (maybe 4, I can't remember) weeks into taking lithium, I'm like a doddering old woman. Painting my nails is now somewhat of a challenge. The toilet is one of my closest friends. Ribena and tea the staple of my liquid intake. But it's all routine, already.

Without routine, I tend to break down. I've recently attempted suicide (with a blunt scalpel used for card craft), but no-one would know. I seem to fly under the radar with great success, yet I'm well known in my town and online. I'm popular, when I choose to be, and insular at the same time. I'm 2 very different people in my head, yet on the outside I'm boringly normal.

How did it come to this? Why was I chosen to have a chemical imbalance? Why did my doctors take 16 years to diagnose me with bipolar affective disorder (good old manic depression to you and me)? The world is just full of questions, of which, that is a huge part of my job... to answer questions. So, how come my life is so confusing to me? Yet, when it's broken down, I have a wonderful life that thousands of people would be envious of. It's uncomplicated and extremely easy. I have a wonderful husband and a pretty nice home. I love my job and the people I [sort of] work with. So what's wrong?

The simple answer is: nothing. It's just that the hand of fate dealt me a blow in the form of this mental illness. I so hate that term - it conjures up a picture of a straitjacket-clad, padded cell-living lunatic, of which I am most definitely not. I'm a person who walks past you daily. I'm clean and smell nice. I do my hair and nails and wear makeup. I'm not in fashion, but I'm not out of it either. I eat, sleep (sometimes), have sex, socialise and do all of the normal everyday things that you do. Only my brain and my cycling moods indicate the mental illness which the surface belies.

For every one person that understands mental illness, there'll be a thousand that don't. Some have just never come across a sufferer. Others just don't understand the range of illnesses. Then there are those who refuse to acknowledge that there are such illnesses as bipolar. Well, I'm hear to tell the latter types that there most certainly IS an affliction such as the one I'm living through, and it's life-altering. Imagine (and this is not limited to bipolar) being told that this thing - that eats at your mind, causes you to think of nothing else but death at times, and then forces you to clean the house, seek rampant sex, walk the dog, talk at high speed -this mental illness, is going to be with you for the rest of your life. There's no cure, only suppressants for the symptoms - if you're lucky. Now tell me that I'm a hypercondriac.

I'm not bitter... I have bipolar.