Sweltering melancholy mornings.
I met with my new psychologist last Wednesday for the first time and after about an hour of a semi-introduction to previous diagnoses and past history, she made the comment that I might have Cyclothymia, which is a less severe form of bipolar disorder. I don’t exactly know how I feel about it, or if she will further probe the inner psyches of my mind (does that make sense?) to make a finalized conclusion. But I suppose if it were true, it would kind of make sense as to why my moods have been so irregular for the last year or so. Especially since I went from being diagnosed with major depressive disorder, to Dysthymia, to now, where I may or may not be suffering from Cyclothymia because of my pattern of recurring highs and lows.
It’s difficult to comprehend the fact that this all started five years ago in my Freshmen year of high school, perhaps even earlier. When I think back to that time, I feel both shame and sympathy for the then fifteen-year-old me who felt at the time, she had no other option but to kill herself. It was such a queer experience, especially because I’ve always been afraid of death, frequently asking as a child, if it were possible for me to go up in a flaming chariot like Elijah the Prophet as opposed to the natural (or not so natural) way of dying. But as I said before, I felt like I had no other choice, the voices and memories becoming too heavy of a burden to bear with the clock seemingly ticking away the final countdown.
I’ve come a long way since then, but I can’t help but think that I will always be plagued by the restraints of mental illness, never fully being able to come into my own or experiencing life in its fullest. I’ll never be able to connect with another human being for longer than my high moods will allow, I’ll never be able to reach higher than the tops of buildings, I’ll never be able to know what lies across the Pacific Ocean with my own eyes and hands, I’ll never know what freedom feels like, not even the tiniest bit. It scares me to think that one day my mother will leave me, and when that day occurs, how I will manage on my own; her worries mirroring mine on a constant basis. It scares me to think of having a family of my own, whether or not my husband or significant other will be able to deal or run to the nearest exit, whether or not my kids will grow up happily and without the curse of disability or illness, mental and physical. When I think about these things, when my mind snowballs into one thing then the next, I feel saddened. I know thinking this way does not aid me in any way, that there is still time for me and that here, right now, may only be temporary. But to me, here, right now, the physical and mental, are still very much real. And I wonder whether or not tomorrow is something I’ll be able to see.
