To me, a large part of living a normal life with mental illness is accepting that life is always going to be weird and uncomfortable. Let’s just get that out there right away. It’s weird, but it is something that you can decide to be in control of.
I faithfully take my medication, have learned good coping skills, and see my therapist when things get rough, but there is always this…bubbling inside. It feels hot and tarry, churning and oozing. It bubbles because all the medication does is dull the bumps; makes a moraine rather than a mountain out of molehill. Sometimes some hapless thought or feeling—things that once use to be erratic, viciously fanged beasts—falls into its putrid, sticky depths to be smothered and trapped forever, never fully expressed or carried to fruition. The suppression is a bitter consolation prize, to be emotionally castrated when I felt so keenly before. I am writing this now while depressed and struggling, and while I am certainly not enjoying it and never have before, the loss of feeling sometimes makes me feel that I have lost some of my humanity for the sake of fitting in. That’s part of why bipolar is so hard to medicate. But it does have its benefits, some of which confer a sense of normalcy. With treatment and accepting that normal will never be something that I can actually possess, I would say that I am fine. I am more productive. I have a stable job. How in the ever living hell I wound up with excellent credit while bipolar is a mystery to me, but it happened and I am working on buying a house. I do have few, but worthwhile friendships. I have learned about my strengths and limitations, which makes me an honest and thoughtful friend and partner, a good employee. I find joy in excercise and burning out my frustrations. I am self aware and have worked on cultivating an identity in which bipolar is just a facet.