So I am making a new commitment to myself to be easier with myself, my body, my stress, food, with my head. I went so see my therapist yesterday. Yesterday, and the few days leading up to yesterday were in the collection of days I call low days. I've talked heavily about my uber up mood days and dangerously low mood days quite a bit on this blog so don't act all brand new on me. You know how they say don't go shopping when you're hungry? Well, going to see your therapist during your low days is kinda the same thing. Figure it out.
She suggested, and I use suggested in the loosest way it can be used, I go and get checked out in a hospital. Me: Yeah ok, maybe I'll do that sometime next week (sike). She: Yeah no. Now. And that went on for a minute and I acquiesced (insert your own version of the drama that went on between her "suggestion" and my actually going to a mental hospital). Anyway I went, along with a dear friend who I knew wouldn't let me just get up and leave, and wouldn't stress me out either with questions and comments I didn't want to hear. And this is wrong but I'm still human so hey, I sat there and compared my "condition" to those around me and figured I was pretty ok. And because my concern is bigger than I can carry sometimes, I thought about how even during my lowest days there are others who...who...well, there are others that's all.
I saw a doctor who examined and spoke with me. I told him about my out of control up days when I'm talking and moving so fast if I didn't know my own self I'd think I was on crack. And about my low days when I just felt...well..like...um... I told him about the simple things I can't seem to manage at any given moment. We talked deeper about blah blah blah and he asked me more questions than I felt like answering, but whatever, I was there. Then more talking and tests and in the end he diagnosed me as being bipolar II. Is it being or having? Anyway, it wasn't a big surprise. I had been feeling off for quite some time now but dangerously offoffoff for at least the last six months. Prayer is always a part of my day, so is journaling. About four months ago I started back exercising more, because I had fallen off. So based on my paranoia, anxiety, tears and quick temper and other things, I agreed to try meds for awhile. It's a low dosage, but let's just see. You know? That's a rhetorical question, by the way, please don't send me your thoughts about what you think I should do.
Having said that, operation decrease stress is on. I tend to present well so I seem like I can take on more than I really can. I will let my fires burn and rush to put yours out, then take time after the burning to let you rest your head on my bosom and pat pat pat and all the other stuff we black care taking women do. Then, because sweet baby you have been through enough, I no thank you, your offer away to help me with my almost burned down house (if there is an offer). My "help" and "taking care of" don't honor you or me when I give at high sacrifice to myself. And in the name of what? That you will think I am a good friend? Person? Woman? There is obviously some payoff or the actions wouldn't persist. The cost, my sober self knows, is more than the payoff. So the meds, I'm finger crossing, will keep my moods even. My thoughts clear(er).
So I have, even though a little reluctantly, gotten off of my beautiful butt (yeah I said it, judge yourself) and am doing something about taking care of my mental health. Truthfully, I'm proud of myself. I'll keep you posted. I always do.