Tuesday, May 22, 2007

In Twenty Minutes...

I'm going to eat something and take my pills. I'm going to thank God with every swallow; thank God for a: dry mouth, indigestion, shaking hands, dizziness, giddiness, drowsiness, foggy thinking, postural hypotension (my blood pressure drops when I stand up quickly, causing me to almost pass out), ghastly metal-mouth taste (like I'm always sucking on a zinc lozenge), acne breakouts, and constant thirst.

It's better than being sick. Last night I realized depression was waiting to kick my butt again. ANYTHING is better than being sick, and battling constant suicidal impulses takes a lot more energy than I lose to the pills. No words can adequately convey the horror of a bipolar depression. I told Ron once "Even if we won the Lotto, I would still want to kill myself." That's the best and most concise way I can phrase it. Ugh. I've been sick long enough. Why wouldn't I happily tolerate all those side effects and more if it means I only suffer the echoes of my old symptoms?

This disease wants to kill me, as surely as any cancer. 50% of people with bipolar illness try to kill themselves, and 11% "succeed". What kind of side effects would I tolerate if I had cancer? I'd happily puke in a bucket and shave my head bald if that's what I needed.

This illness has a worse mortality rate than many cancers.

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