Honey, I could've written this post myself a year ago. Being diagnosed with BP is a total game-changer, and it takes a long time to process. There's dealing with being given a label, grief over losing the person you thought you were, tons of medication adjustments, and learning to accept having the disorder while still living your life.

I'm still working on all of this, though I've made great strides in the 15 months since I was diagnosed. Some small part of me desperately wanted it to not be true---for months, I thought my psychiatrist was merely humoring me because I'd come in suspecting bipolar, and he needed to have a diagnosis to bill for.

Well, he's much too honest and ethical to do anything like that, but I really, really, REALLY didn't want to be bipolar and he played along for a while, treating me with meds and therapy just like a 'real' patient; we just didn't use the label.

But finally, the elephant in the room couldn't be ignored any longer, and there was no choice but to call it what it was. So for the past few months, he's been taking me very gently by the shoulders, turning me to face my enemy, and calling the bastard by its name.

And why shouldn't I acknowledge the truth? It's nothing to be ashamed of. I didn't do this to myself, just as people don't get cancer, diabetes, or even the flu on purpose. I have behaved in ways that made me ashamed (and I deserved to!) and hurt my loved ones deeply; but now that everyone understands why I did those things---and why I still can't control myself completely---there is forgiveness. The only person who has trouble with that concept, of course, is me. And I'm working on that.