The Ugly, the Bad, and the Good
Once again, the ugly, the bad and the good have aligned themselves to rearrange agendas and refocus attention on what is important in life: love, the higher power. First, the ugly: Mood spectrum disorder manifests itself through some ugly components, but enough peaches and cream. Been there, done that, and now my goal is to not repeat it.
The bad presents itself, more in the way that I allow MSD to alter my previous lifestyle, than through any physical or mental challenges. I dealt with the gong going off in my head every time I flashed on bipolarism, until it stopped of its own accord when I acquired some knowledge on the subject. I think of the bad as any lack of communication, which allows false assumptions to be made about what MSD is and how it impacts the people involved.
I hate that I am anxious about this upcoming family gathering, because it should be something to anticipate with relish. That is a bad thing. But I love the fact that I have six weeks to get my tools together, and formulate a plan. That’s the good news. I can’t do anything about the presence of MSD in the first place, but I can do much about how I proceed from here.
So much of the available information about MSD, begins with the premise that medication is essential. When I asked Annie how we were supposed to deal with this attitude, she said to ignore it, and draw from the work, that which applies to us. I also see this as good because all along we have adhered to the idea that one must advocate for oneself, or take potluck. Having already been served a portion of Seroquel, the “atypical, antipsychotic medication” I was prescribed on the very first visit to my original psychiatrist, and having chosen to abstain after reading about possible side-effects, I am more determined than ever to call the upcoming shots.
That is also a good thing. For me to pursue a course of action with which I disagreed, would be disastrous, because I have to have buy-in, the same as any other middle schooler. Tell me I have to do something, and watch me dig my heels in. Suggest that it is in my best interest, to direct my own therapeutic path, and I am much more likely to see the advantages, and go for the jugular.
The end result is that my illness has allowed me to see the higher power of love in action and that is the best thing of all. I have seen patience personified, and I have seen perseverance prevail. I have seen uncertainty turn into illumination, and I have seen bewilderment become knowledge and power. I have witnessed initiative in action, and seen the results, even though I was flummoxed at the time, not to mention dazed and confused. Now I see the reality that MSD is no different than any other ailment I may have developed as I aged, only more misunderstood.
That very misunderstanding is what leaves me incapable of embracing the upcoming reunion with anticipation and enthusiasm. I find myself wanting to say, “Hey everyone, I’m the same old me. I mean, I used to be weird; now I’m just weird with a label.” Then I remember that no one has suggested that I am not me-except me.
Oh. I have to remember that. I am the one who is creating the classic “what-if” dilemma. What if, like, well, everyone is all uncomfortable around me? What if, like, well, I take a sharp stick and jab it into my eye? Both would have an equally nonexistent effect on the outcome of the event.
What if, like, well I just walk into the joint like I own it, and tell thems what have a problem to eat a root? Now there’s a what-if I can live with. Just skip the potato chips.