An Unexpected Diagnosis

The roiling psychodrama that is my life was presented recently with a new conundrum, namely a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. I’m not sure how the social hierarchy of mental health problems pans out, but the proposition was ‘Bipolar 2’, as opposed to 1, which I think means I’m slightly less crazy than those listed numerically above me. Whatever.

However it is, it came as a surprise even, I’ll admit, as a shock. I found this out a few weeks ago and my normal propensity to blurt out social or emotional problems in writing and/or on the internet was momentarily stilled. Oh, I thought, as the questioning psychiatrist moved in a firm and increasingly apparent direction, I’m about to be diagnosed with a relatively serious mental health disorder. At that stage, and such is my ignorance, I wasn’t even aware that there is more than one type of bipolar. Bipolar 1, apparently, presents serious mania, including delusions and psychosis, of the type that may see you hospitalised for the protection of yourself and others. The depressive side however, may be less intense. Bipolar 2, on the other hand, sees the mania present as the less severe ‘hypomania’, where delusions and psychosis may not be present, but a general madness and grandiosity to one’s behaviour is. Depressive episodes are more severe than in type 1. This, in a virgin bipolar dude, is my rudimentary understanding and I genuinely welcome any insights here from people who’ve experienced these conditions.

Now shocked as I may have been, this all adds up. With my mental health clearly deteriorating over the years, and with vast alcohol abuse in mind, I’d previously dismissed notions of mental health disorder as being a result of alcoholism, selfishness, stupidity, personal evil or whatever else it was that people who should have known better (frankly) told me it was. Despite whatever successes life has given me (considerable) I was, I agreed, pathetic. A loser, an addict, a waster, an appalling husband, father, friend whatever whatever. A genius even, kinder people would say, but what a waste and so on and so forth. And, in your doldrums, this poisonous stuff is easily believed. And without wishing to completely abrogate personal responsibility (which may still exist within the constraints of mental health disorder) I’m here to tell you that none of that shit is true. For some time now, therapists have been advising me that the intense feelings of guilt, shame and loathing I felt towards myself, were not only products of my own disturbed imagination, but instead of the disturbed imagination of other people. ‘This is their shit’, my counsellors would say, ‘Let them own it’. Amen to that.

But as the episodes of hypomania, wild insecurity, grandiosity and alcoholism piled up, followed by crushing depression (both free from, but medicated by, alcohol) became apparent in my mind, then the truth was only a few, professional and well-directed questions (and a later psychological analysis) away.

Anyway, I don’t want to labour the point. It is what it is, I’m happy to have a diagnosis so we can sort it out. I regret it didn’t come earlier is all. But regret gives us nothing but itself, and I already have enough to spare.

I’ll write more on this in upcoming posts.

Nick Jordan