I would write what it means to be autistic, but there are so many different people on the autism spectrum that I don’t think I can do that. I’d also write about the typical life of a woman with bipolar disorder, but the same rule applies. But what it means to be me; that I can tell you. At least I think I can.
Sometimes I wake up with a spring in my step. Well, in my mind I have a spring in my step, and I wake up super early, maybe 4:30 a.m. or so, and I’m excited. About what? I don’t know. I brew coffee to slowly drink for at least a couple of hours while I browse the news, the newsfeeds of social media, chat with P when he’s in England, clean my apartment and more.
Other times I wake up with a deep sadness and I don’t know why. I might even think about ending it all because I’m in so much pain. Thoughts are racing through my head, a song is playing on loop, and at least I still want coffee. (Is that hope?) But I don’t have a spring in my step — or my mind. Yet, I know the only treatment available is to get up and take my medication.
Perhaps I’m talking more about bipolar disorder than autism. Or, who even knows anymore as an “unspecified” diagnosis leaves you a mystery. Sure, I’ve always liked to think outside of the box, but sometimes a box seems like it’d be more reassuring, predictable, simple and comfortable.
As you may have read, I’m somewhere between unspecified bipolar and schizoaffective disorder and it annoys me so.
Some days I wake up annoyed. Not because there are bills to pay that I cannot afford. I mean, that’s annoying. But for no seeming reason whatsoever.
Maybe that’s just me.
I do know that I need medication for some of these symptoms, including a monthly shot. Other symptoms require different kinds of therapy, including self-help. I used to think there’d come a day when everything would be cool, settled and content. But now I think the only road to contentment is accepting that I may always need to work on myself, just to feel the slightest bit well.
On being me; my “good” days are filled with fulfilling sessions in therapy, coffee that’s just strong enough, simple plans for my future with P and maybe a day where the urge to self-medicate is non-existent. Stuff like that might not seem like your idea of happiness, but it’s gratitude that keeps me going.