Stroking Bipolar

This past week has been one of the most frightening of my life. Any post that starts like surely must be hyperbolic. i would think this. But I’m not exaggerating.

Last Wednesday, I had what initially diagnosed as a major stroke. My body just refused to do what I wanted. I saw double, couldn’t touch my nose, couldn’t walk. I couldn’t feed myself. Luckily, after many tests no signs of a stroke could be found and nothing tangible could be found as a cause.

I thought this was just damned unfair. First I have to deal with the life changing impacts of bipolar disorder, now I have to cope with this as well. For the rest of my life. I wondered if there was a correlation between bipolar and stokes, or perhaps the medication that I take.

I’m so much younger that an average stroke victim. I couldn’t understand why all this was happening. The first two days in the hospital, I was a scared as I can remember.

Luckily, my recovery was swift and complete. Now I wonder what was this all about. I have realized that for a long time I didn’t care if I lived or died. That struggling with bipolar had taken away all good reason for living. I often thought that it would just be better if I was dead.

For a while I didn’t know if I would be able to write. I didn’t know if I would walk, run of live on my own again.

I didn’t know if I would ever hug my kids again.

Now it’s over or at least as over as it can be. The doctors were amazed by my recovery and I was too.

After so long wondering what is my life all about, I have a new perspective. It’s hard not to.

Something has changed. There must be a reason. I feel new. The light of day has changed. Perhaps I’m more at peace. I have hope again.

And believing in hope is enough for now. I must be here for some reason. I will have find that reason.

Best of all, I still have the chance to search.

 

peace and love to all

The Truth of Fear

I keep a personal journal that I usually keep private. In fact, I rarely go back and reread entries. More often than not, these chunks of writing ramble in a random, disorganized fashion. Perhaps an insight into the workings unmended mind.

However, the following is a recent entry that I keep going back to and experience a reflection on myself that, frankly, disturbs me.

How much I feel true fear? The question is valid, worthy of exploration. Not rhetorical nor self-evident. Just honest. 

I fear that the rest of my life will simply float by. Without aim. Without purpose. Without justification. Without a path toward some semi-fulfilling end. 

Without. Simple. Convincing. Fucking disturbing and depressing.

And the frightening thing is – I have no idea how to change. How to  invest my moments and days with something other than the mere passing of time. Waiting for death.

Or deciding to bring on death. To control the final spasm of my life.

Each time I go to an appointment with my doctor I have a secret hope. I wish for a diagnosis of some sickness that will define my time until the end. A disease that people will understand and admire how I handle it. I don’t really care what it is. Whether it is painful or demure. Just incurable.

At least it might show me some meaning. How often do we hear how those with a deadly disease, a limited time on earth, discover an inner peace. An inner sense of worth with specific goals, spiritual or otherwise.

Something that bipolar lacks. It just lingers in a life-wrenching, long-lasting manner.

This is my deep-seated hope. A hope that I’ve had for many years. But it remains unfulfilled. I fact, each time I see my doctor I come away with a disgusting and startling fine bill of health.

Damn body. Damn body.

Can’t it fail somehow? Is it too much to ask?