Dear Mrsatroxi,

So.

Um.

Yeah.

Bipolar.

So. Yeah.

That’s the 500 pound chihuahua in the room, isn’t it?

(It’s my site, it can be a 500 pound whatever I want. And gorillas scare me. So there.)

I saw my doctor a few weeks ago, and I told him about some of the odd little things and feelings that I have been having. I was actually getting quite annoyed with him, because he kept making me repeat things, and I felt like he was in my face belittling me. I had even shut down a bit and was starting to promise myself that I didn’t have to go back there, when he suddenly sat back in his chair and explained that he was pushing because he was worried. Because medication can sometimes bring out latent problems. Problems like bipolarism.

That word knocked me for a loop and clicked all at the same time.

Basically, if I have it, it’s mild. My ups are a little higher, and my lows are a little lower than “just” depression. My edges are rougher, if you will.

My doctor wants to take a “wait and see” tack at this point, and that’s fine with me. I’ve done some reading on the subject, which was scary and difficult.

I’m tired. I feel like this is just another hurtle thrown in my path to “normalcy”. The word “bipolar” has even more stigma attached to it than “depression”. But I’m also relieved in a way, because if this is true, it may explain a lot. It may help me get treatment I need.

I haven’t told my parents. For several reasons, but the biggest one is also a very silly one.

My Mother pronounces the word bipolar as “bye-POLE-LARR“.

And it drives me up the wall.

As I was growing up, I was not allowed to wear t-shirts with anything on them.

Let me clarify that. I don’t mean stains, food, or mud. Those were perfectly ok. (And I always had plenty of all of those. But that’s another story. For another time.) No, I mean pictures, or words. Someone once handed down a shirt to me that had a horse on it as well as a sentence that said “Dare to Dream” or some other nonsense like that. I could wear it, but only around the house, or to bed. But not out. Definitely not out. Flowers, now, flowers were ok. But nothing else. I don’t know why. I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. I don’t know if perhaps my Mother thought them vulgar, or if she was frightened by a slogan as a small child. Either way, no shirt for me.

Until now.

Now, as I grow older, I am acting out on that oppression. Every single damn t-shirt I buy has something on it. I have Muppets t-shirts, Mutts t-shirts, Eeyore t-shirts, Sesame Street t-shirts, a Dalek t-shirt, a Jayhawks t-shirt, and one of my most favorites, a Mr. Rogers t-shirt.

Just call it my teenage rebellion ten years too late.

Hello.

I’m back.

The hubby and I had a nice little vacation.

I don’t have many pictures because it rained pretty much the whole time. Which was fine.

I’m not posting much because I’m on a downswing, and I know all ya all don’t need to hear all about that.

Do you?