Written shortly after I was misdiagnosed with Type-II Bipolar Disorder.

I wonder if this is another one of those projects I’d start but don’t finish. I’m even capitalizing correctly, I must be taking this rather seriously, ha-ha.

This Monday I went to the doctor’s, and an hour-and-a-half later, emerged from the office clutching in my hand a photocopied sheet of the diagnosis: “Bipolar Disorder-II”. Great, I grimaced. All this time, I thought I was ‘clinically depressed.’ Now I’ve got a whole different ball game to deal with, one that I’ve not dealt with past skimming a Psych-101 text book from college. And what does ‘manic’ really mean? Bipolar Disorder is the current preferred term over ‘manic depression’. I’m not manic! I’m not hyper… am I? Maybe it’s the strange and silent whirring in my brain that seems to keep going on most of the time and preventing my tired body from slumber. Maybe the strange bursts of energy that comes from nowhere, and translates into nothing particularly productive. The energy drones on and on….

The evaluating nurse told me she did a little survey a while ago on how readily people would admit they have bipolar depression and asked whether people would rather admit they have bipolar disorder or an STD. I jumped to the answer in my head.

“Why would anyone choose STD over bipolar?”
“That’s what one would think!” said the nurse.

It’s been about 3 days since I’ve found out that I have, in the psychiatrist’s words, “a touch of bipolar disorder” and I begin to understand why people would choose to feel unsightly from STD rather than unsightly from bipolar disorder… or any other mental illness for that matter.

Brains are frightening things simply because even amidst our biotechnological revolution, we still have little clue to how it works. Something happens inside the soft spongy grayish white mass and we have no idea what exactly. Unless the brain experiences gross anatomical misformations or atrophy, we would have to use complicated machinery just to get some kind of a pattern of its activity, but not exactly a roadmap to what’s happening. We naturally fear what we don’t understand, that was why the ancient people sacrifice virgins and boil potatoes (or do they boil something else? I just made up the latter part since I have no evidence of any potato boiling by any aboriginal tribes,) we are afraid of the unknown.

Mental illness belongs to dysfunction in the brain, which largely remains a mystery even to modern science. With STD… well… just check under the ’scope or take a look and there you see it. At least you can see where you are applying your salve on! Where do I find the problem in my head, and once found, a salve for it?

Maybe the fear of unknowns have less to do with our stigma towards mental illness as… fear of loss of control. When you say you have STD, people would look at you like you’re stupid, and frequently, you were indeed - for not slapping on the glove before you go to love (and love doesn’t play a role in half the cases). Unless you were fooled by the partnering dickhead who didn’t tell you they’ve rolled in contaminated hay, this is something you CAN control.

When you say you have bipolar disorder or a mental illness, people start looking at you like you’re someone to be watched out for, to avoid, to be careful around because… heck you might be… crazy.

It’s the loss of control over one’s destiny that seems more frightening to others because it might mean they also have no control over their own.

This was a diary entry written February 5, 1998 at around 5 am, after experiencing a “moment of truth” and finally seeking help for depression. If you find yourself in these words, that’s probably because you too, are sick of suffering from something that is very treatable. If it helps you, please use this entry as your message of letting your doctor know what you have been feeling. I know in my heart that in time and in patience, you will climb over your fence.

I’ve decided to make an appointment tomorrow.

I’ve tried to “best” myself - analyze myself to shreds - but I keep falling short and I don’t know how to climb over the fence.

I’m sick of wanting something, but feel this invisible wall placed over me; it’s like I can see it but I cannot get to it.

I’m sick of feeling like I’m worthless no matter what I am consciously aware of. Just feeling like a big nothing and that no one would really, in their clear minds, want me or cherish me.

I’m sick of being afraid all the time of thoughts in my head that I can analyze but cannot wave away.

I’m sick of feeling like I’m just not good enough for anybody else - and everybody else.

I’m sick of consciously knowing that I am a capable human being but feeling like I can never amount to anything.

I’m sick of this all, and I am really desperate.

I’m sick of feeling helpless and frustrated and defeated - by me.

I’m sick of being such a big mess for myself. I’m sick of neglecting and abandoning Me.

I’m so sick of this I am Hurt. I’m so sick of this I am Angry.

I am aware but I cannot seem to perceive. I want but I cannot seem to achieve. And I’m beginning to wonder if I should consider the possibility that I might need a good dose of serotonin to experience what life can be like without feeling sick of myself.

I’m scared of losing Me.

I’m sick of Suffering and I’ve had enough.