The mythical magical legend of a happy medium

All I have ever wanted is  a happy medium. I don’t need to be constantly ecstatic, if I were I’d have to strangle myself.

But the extreme shifts are really wearing me down.

I was in a despondent depression for 8 months.

Enter spring, Paxil, and I feel half manic. Like a train starting to careen off the track with impulsive behaviors and too much euphoria one minute, a crippling mood crash the next.

“You cycle too fast for this to be true bipolar, it must be borderline personality disorder.”

From all my research, borderlines are generally set off by outside stressors.

I don’t have any pattern of triggers.

One minute, dandy. Next minute, kill me pleeeeease.

Oh to simply stay in between the two extremes, what a dream that would be.

Today I feel this manic electricity under my skin and in my brain, like I’ve slacked off for too long and now I need to shift into gear and get shit done.

My money is on it dying down the instant I start to do something. Because that’s how my brain works. It constantly trolls me.

I used to be grateful that I got “properly diagnosed” with a mental illness to explain all of this instability within my own head.

But all the meds and shrinks and counselors have also been utterly detrimental. I second guess myself, I analyze myself, I analyze others, everything has to be way more complicated than it is because damn it, if I am expected to change because “x,y,z,k,p,o” is wrong with me, I want some goddamn reciprocation. That’s what all this shit has gotten me in the long run. I irritate myself because I’ve been so brainwashed.

Life was simpler when I just shrugged and said, “I’m quirky and eccentric, fuck off.”

Now it’s “Oh, I’m bipolar and I am so sorry if I took my mood out on you, I will try to do better because I know what a pain it is for you to have to deal with me being ill.”


At least with quirky and eccentric I didn’t feel like such a victim who’s screwed up beyond all redemption.

Now it’s all about fitting into some textbook version with symptom a,b, c and d that last x amount of time, blah blah blah.

Fuck this shit. Give me a happy fucking medium.

I want to believe in the benefit of mental health care, I really do. I’ve seen myself with and without meds and the with is a lot more stable.

I’m just hitting the wall on my tolerance of bullshit.

Because if no antidepressant makes me drown for 8 months, and an anti depressant gives me manic euphoria, then I’m obviously not asymptomatic and I am obviously not at a happy medium. And it’s like this every single fucking time.

Becca and I were joking last night in our macabre way and she said something about not wanting to walk on a railing like I used to do ‘cos she’d fall and cripple herself. I told her, hey, at least your illness would be visible and people would have empathy.

It sucks that it’s true.

One Response to “The mythical magical legend of a happy medium”

  1. I get the electricity under my skin. I call it ‘the fire’ because it feels like if I don’t let it out somehow it’ll burn me alive. Maybe what you’re talking about is different idk.

    Anyway I know how you feel. Every ‘professional’ I see tells me something different to the last one. I finally have found a good shrink, even though we differ on my diagnosis I’m willing to let that slide so long as she treats my symptoms not my diagnosis. And I’ve started to feel positive, like this whole recovery business might actually be worth something. And then I have a day like yesterday and today where I feel hopeless and my entire life is pointless and I’m just wasting my time because I can never get better no matter how hard I try. This shift has been extreme, even though the signs were there and I should’ve seen it coming I didn’t. Oh to be stable and normal. My kingdom for a boring life.

    Let’s make those truffles, I know they’ll fix all out problems.

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