Last night, my mother made me go on a walk with her. She wanted to talk about my many recent shopping expenses. And I said, “Well, I was manic.”Her immediate response was, “When you’re manic, can’t you do something to stop yourself from shopping?” Suddenly, I understood that she didn’t understand.
When I’m manic, I just think things are going well. I think I am in a fantastic spot, feeling good. I don’t know I’m manic, so there isn’t anything I can do to stop its effects. Sure it’s not as bad as it was when I was unmedicated. But I am still bipolar. “Then should you change your meds?” she asked. “No. What will changing the meds do but make me gain weight? The meds make me better; they don’t cure me,” I said.
She told me that she could tell by the way I talk when I am manic. She wanted to know what she could do to help.“Let me know! Don’t nag, but just ask if I’m okay. Tell me I sound manic.”“How are you going to handle being on your own?” She’s my mother, so I understand her concern. And that exact question has been on my mind too.“I don’t know. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to be on my own completely.”
I know I can’t regulate my spending. I know that I will have to be on an allowance, just to limit the damage. I know I’m bipolar.I just wish I could be something else. I think I would rather be wheelchair bound than afraid of credit cards. I think I would rather lose an arm than know that I will never be able to trust myself completely. Medications can’t fix that.