Tags
bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, family, life, meds, mental health, mental illness, motivation, random shit that falls out of my brain
I am more than happy to “own” my mental illnesses. I don’t hide them, I’m not ashamed of my diagnoses, and I’m happy to talk to anyone about them. But I don’t identify as being my illnesses.
I HAVE bipolar disorder, type 2, and I HAVE borderline personality disorder.
And that’s how I say it, precisely like that. HAVE. I do not ever say that I AM bipolar or that I AM borderline. I’m not. A person with diabetes would never say that they ARE diabetes, so why should someone with a mental illness say that they ARE their disease(s)?
Mental illnesses are diseases and should be treated as such. There are medications for most of them and complimentary therapies for many. With these we can live productive and happy lives, just like anyone else.
Own your disease(s), take responsibility for the things you do in life, but for fuck sake do not define yourself by them. You are SO MUCH MORE than any diagnosis.
So I woke up early this morning, 5:30 I think, and I felt rested. I felt good. So I got up. I got dressed, I went and fixed my hair. It’s done up in a French braid today.
This is not a major thing for probably anyone but me. The last time I had long hair I used to do it like this almost every day. And then I got diagnosed and my hands stopped having the kind of coordination they needed to work like that behind my head with all that damn hair.
But today it worked and it looks good. And that made me happy. Happy is always good.
I’ve decided that “comfort waist” is some kind of fucked up code in fat girl pants land for “better have on interesting undies cuz these fuckers are going to wind up down around your knees when you least expect it.”
But I guess this is good considering I’m wearing the smaller pants today. I’m still finding this odd because the last time I really paid attention to my own ass there was enough junk in that trunk that Rose (from the Titanic movie) could have packed all her fancy dresses in it and still smuggled Jack home.
I have apparently become obsessed with organization and cleanliness. It pains me to see any emails left in my inbox, either work or personal. The fact that I haven’t had time to get more of my to do lists done is freaking me out. I’m jonesing to wipe down every surface in this office with antibacterial stuff. And I felt utterly compelled to make the bed and tidy up our room before I left this morning.
Fuck. I’ve turned into Mom.
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