My Bipolar Diagnosis

I hate my Bipolar diagnosis

I might be in the minority, but I don’t want a label attached to me.

I don’t want to be on the medication either. I’d rather rationalise my stay in hospital¬† as “sheer exhaustion” and leave it the hell there.

I am not a typical Bipolar individual

I don’t believe for a second that I’m Bipolar by text book definition.

I might exhibit some of the symptoms, but generally speaking, my moods are stable, or a little on the depressed side.

There’s still a stigma

I could find a hundred people in my hometown more nuts than me, yet I’m the one with the psychiatric history and medical records.

My problem with having a diagnosis is that there’s still a stigma, still a lack of understanding. There’s still a lack of empathy and still a lack of compassion.

It still hurts

Just because it’s a brain hiccup, doesn’t mean it hurts any less than a broken bone. Bones take time to heal, and the mind does too!

Somebody stop me!

Just because I have a mental health condition, that doesn’t mean I’m useless. Hell, I’m probably one of the smartest people you’ll have the pleasure of conversing with. I just disguise it with down to earth patter and swearing.

In other words, if God was walking the Earth right now, do you think he’d hold up a sign and let you know? Course he wouldn’t! He would blend in.

I try to be a man of the people. Everyone deserves five minutes, no matter their background or crime – there’s good in the bad, bad in the good.