Day of Reckoning

Well, this is it—the day I’ve been worrying about for a week. I haven’t been this nervous about seeing my pdoc since the very first visit. I KNOW he won’t judge me, but I hate disappointing him almost as much as I do my family and friends.

Like the detective at heart that I am, I’m still working on the root-cause analysis of why, after two decades of perfect sobriety, I blew it over a stupid Facebook post that was never meant for my eyes. Maybe it really IS what an online friend told me: life has been extraordinarily rough for me the past few years, and I just broke.

But I also think there’s something more to it, perhaps something I don’t want to admit even to myself. Maybe life was getting TOO good for awhile there and I was getting used to that, so I was blown away when I got clobbered again. This is where I think my Irish ancestry gets me into trouble: we tend to look over our shoulders even in good times, because we know bad ones will always follow. It’s almost as if we see it as divine punishment for enjoying those good times. This time, I wasn’t looking over my shoulder, and a metaphorical sneaker wave knocked me flat.

Then again, I’ve read articles and other information that claim it’s a bipolar trait. Well, shucks, I can’t imagine why that would have anything to do with ME…..heh.

There’s also the kindling theory, which I think has a lot of merit to it because it describes the progression of my bipolar illness over the years: the more episodes you have, the more you are apt to have, and the more episodes you have, the worse they get and the harder they are to treat. In this case, I’ve simply had a lot of stuff pile up on me and all it took was something relatively minor to send me over the edge.

But whatever the reason, I’ll be glad to get this confession over and done with so I can move on from the incident. I took a big step in the right direction when I gave Will the pills, now I just need to complete the circle. Eight days and counting…..

Published by bpnurse

I'm a retired registered nurse and writer who also happens to be street-rat crazy, if the DSM-IV.....oops, 5---is to be believed. I was diagnosed with bipolar I disorder at the age of 55, and am still sorting through the ashes of the flaming garbage pile that my life had become. Here, I'll share the lumps and bumps of a late-life journey toward sanity.... along with some rants, gripes, sour grapes and good old-fashioned whining from time to time. It's not easy being bipolar in a unipolar world; let's figure it out together.

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