By Clara Autumn/Posted at;iam1in4.com
Damn, that was a long shift. In my eyes anything that involves only one cigarette break in 12 hours qualifies as an act of torture. But still, the job is worth it and it’s the only thing that keeps me sane some days. Ironically speaking.
Still, 12 hours, three emergency responses, two admissions and a rather well-dodged right hook later and I am sitting on my Harley ready to ride at (cough) 30mph all the way home…
I knew, however, that the pressure was building in my head. I have always been notoriously bad at moderating my stress levels. I could sit there full of front on top of 883cc of chrome and fury looking the personification of chill, but have you ever seen a pressure cooker go? It’s spectacular.
Bipolarity, or bipolar, for the regular non-Stephen Fry class of illness, is something I have managed for seven years. However, it was painfully apparent to anyone from the age of 12 that it was a little more than pre-teen attitude. I’m not sure what gave it away first; the multiple suicide attempts, self-harming or the Goth attire. The latter I still rock by the way.
My mental health ‘quirks’ had been managed by a nice dose of lithium for the majority of this time, and quite to the contrary of what Kurt Cobain said, I wasn’t so happy that I’d found the friends that were in my head. But 1600mg of lithium helped gag those bastards.
I’d come to accept some inevitabilities about my diagnosis, and while I will never be one of those writers that likes to define an illness by its negatives, it sure isn’t always a walk in the park. A stroll in a shit-filled minefield, perhaps.
I’ve found ways of making my illness work for me, in the most part. Hypomania? Or as I call it, get that damn housework done. Hyper-sexualised? My man is in for the best sex since he left the army.
But there are some symptoms I’ve experienced during mania that I’m less capable of making light of. And before I tell you my secret, I ask you to imagine something.
Think of the person that scares you most in the world.Now personify this by 1000, distort their face and insert them into the forefront of your mind. Your worst enemy is now inside your head, trying to strike nothing short of cold, unadulterated fear into you. When are in your house alone and you catch glimpse of a twisted face in the darkened window. Or perhaps when you are on your Harley Davidson in a Tesco petrol station, watching the scene of a 1940s air raid fall down around you.
My secret? I see things that I know are not real….
Continued via…Source: Bombs & Bipolar – Hallucinating isnt just for hippies – I am 1 in 4