Mental Health Gratitude.

Mental illness is miserable. But I do find reasons to be grateful.

I'm grateful

• for my diagnoses. They were (and are) scary, but they shed some light on some frightening darkness. I have a clue now about what I'm facing.
• for having a way to explain myself to others. Before my diagnoses, I had no defense against encouragement to pretend I was fine or to get over myself. Now, I have terms. I have documentation. I can teach or point others to more information.
• for unexpected support. I decided to make this blog open after I sent a letter to family. I have not had a single unkind or inappropriate response.
• that I can understand some relatives a little more (bipolar disorder runs wild in my family), and see what we share.
• that though our disorders may be different, I am sometimes uniquely able to empathize with Oliver.
• that medication is available to help me, and I have a psychiatrist who is willing to change and tweak my medication to, as he says, stabilize me.
• that I've had two great therapists who somehow seem to bring out the best of my personality. The sessions are really story-based. I tell a story from my life (a trauma, usually, but sometimes something hilarious that happened in between and even during tragic events), and she asks questions that take us somewhere.
• that after a lot of effort, I've gotten assistance, and I don't have to work out in the world. I believe that a job would be dangerous for me.
• that my close family and friends believe me and take me seriously. 
• that Mom, Josh, and Bruce have all read books about bipolar disorder to better understand and love me.
• for my new, fledgling spirit of forgiveness for myself. Most of my life, I've done my best. 

The Face of Wellness.

After my diagnosis a few years ago, I felt both enlightened and deeply confused. Part of me said "At last! I understand why I'm different and why so much of life has been so difficult and painful." But the rest of me only had questions:

• At what points in my life have I been sick?
• What does mania look like for me?
• What choices of mine were illness-driven-and for which choices can I forgive myself?

But though I had many questions about illness, I had even more about wellness:

• Am I capable of wellness if I do everything right? And am I capable of doing everything right?
• What does wellness look like for me?
• When have I been well in the past?
• What's me, and what's illness--and to what degree are these the same? Who will I be when I am well?

I know these are difficult questions. But I'm trying to identify symptoms, this time, of wellness.

• Low anxiety about ordinary actions like driving or checking out with a cashier.
• Engaged, happy reading.
• Moderate energy.
• Remembering to take my pills.
• Occasional, special shopping without compulsion.
• No desperate sorrow or exhausting happiness.
• Appropriate crying.
• Connecting with Oliver.
• Fluid thought.
• Fluid story telling.
• Regular writing.
• Smoother handwriting.
• Seeking laughter.

Terms: My Mania.

Bipolar disorder seems to affect people in different ways that may not be clear. At first, I had trouble matching my experience with the terms for symptoms.

Sometimes, my thoughts turn joyful or terrifying, either way running over me, over and over, until I am fragile and exhausted. I can quickly forget what I was pondering, and other ideas push to get through. But I didn't call that "racing thoughts."

Sometimes, pouring out some of these thoughts by talking to someone for a long time, jumping among subjects, leaving ideas incomplete, and generally confusing the listener can give me some relief. Over the phone and in person, I sometimes feel desperate to keep the conversation going as if I will lose the person if I let the words end. But I didn't see that as "pressured speech."

There's also risky and impulsive behaviors. I took risks growing up, but that just seemed like teenager stuff. After Oliver was born, I began shopping online, mostly for work clothes. More and more and more. It made me happy except for the bit of guilt that squeezed into my throat and chest. It was definitely risky and impulsive even though I wasn't buying cars or having affairs.

All these are still with me sometimes in various forms, though the medication sands down the edges. But I'm glad to have names for my symptoms. I know more about who I am.