When it was all about bipolar disorder

It’s that time of year when the weather is changing and the sunrise comes a little later each day. Nights are almost cold here, but the days, although sunny, clear, and dry, are steadily edging toward the inevitable. You can't really see the change yet, but you can definitely feel it.

Fall is a dangerous time for me. It’s usually when my mood stability starts chipping away at itself, shedding little bits of wellbeing with each degree that falls on the thermometer. Some people feel invigorated by the crisp fall air, but for me it merely signals the gray curtain of winter is drawing ‘round.

The atmospheric evidence of fall’s arrival is a strong trigger for my memory as well as for my mood. It’s as if during the rest of the year, I can put the trauma of the supposed bipolar years into a neutral place while maintaining perspective about my life and the events that have happened within it. When fall comes, though, I don’t have benign memories—I have very strong emotions.

Each year, I go through this process of sorting through everything that happened, as well as analyzing what went wrong. This eventually leads to a full mental replay of how I felt unsupported and unloved at the time when I truly needed love and support most. I revisit the question, “What did I want from my world?”

I wanted the people around to me to care about my discomfort. I used to say that I wanted them to care that I was sick, but the problem wasn’t that they didn’t care—they cared only about how my illness made me less appealing than the version of me they liked. Nobody was particularly empathetic or compassionate. They wanted me to get better for their own comfort, not for mine.

I wanted everyone to understand that something was happening to me, and no matter how hard I fought it, it was consuming me. I nearly lost the struggle three times, yet not one person ever stepped forward with a comforting word. No, they berated me, scolded me, told me I couldn’t be weak, that I needed to fight harder, that it was up to me to choose to be well, and that it was making them angry that I might turn out to be a quitter.

I needed unconditional love. I needed that love packaged with compassion, kindness, comfort, and warmth poured on me without judgment. I wanted the people in my life to be upset that I was in peril and that I was scared. I wanted them to acknowledge that my illness was in no way willful or a product of my own emotional self-indulgence.

Instead, they were upset that I wasn’t living up to expectations. Not one person ever told me, “I’m sorry this is happening to you. I can’t imagine how this feels from the inside. I want you to get better because you deserve that. I want you to get better because I can’t bear to see you so sad and broken. I want you to get better because you are loved and wanted. How can I help you? Let’s find a way together.” I wanted them to be sincere about it.

Oh, how I have been sorely disappointed by my expectations of other people.

I got better because medication helped. I got better because I educated myself on what courses of action would be most effective. I got better because Dr. B believed in my ability to manage and adjust my own medications. I got better because Jolie met me at the lowest point in my life and decided I was satisfactory friend material, despite my deficits. I got better because I felt I owed it to my husband to do so. I got better because I needed to—I still had some business I couldn’t leave unfinished.

The whole of my 40s left me profoundly changed. I am not better or worse, stronger or smarter. I am more cautious, for sure. Definitely less optimistic. I have lowered my expectations. I don’t expend emotional energy on other people nearly as much as I used to.

More than anything, I am more self-absorbed—someone needs to have my back, and that someone appears to be me. Nobody else wanted the job, not really. At some point, I need to stop pinning my self-esteem to that fact. That’s more of a spring thought process, though.