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I knew (how couldn't I?) for a very long time that I had extreme highs and lows. I didn't do anything about it (i.e. seek out help) because I was either afraid of seeing therapists/pdocs, having too much fun, or ignorant of and/or resistant to the notion that this was something to be medicated.
I was 'off the grid' for a good many years, didn't watch much TV, very limited Internet (from living abroad and just the way I was, here in the US as well), and didn't think in terms of mental illness, it's not how I saw myself or others, not how I thought. It wasn't until a series of events led to constant panic attacks where it became terrifying to leave my home (and this wasn't even the bipolar) that I sought help. I didn't even ask my pdoc of that time what my diagnosis was (aside from the anxiety, which was an obvious cause and effect/PTSD) until a couple of years in, just took the meds, and it took some time to find things that helped me.
I kept journals -nearly daily- for many many years. I suppose if I looked back at them with the eye of someone with the knowledge I have now of bipolar I could come to some conclusions, sure. But it wouldn't be so cut and dried. If I had written in my journals: "Haven't slept for days, but I'm not in the least tired and feel great!" then yeah, that would clinch it, but I wasn't writing through that lens before the diagnosis and subsequent research. So, yes, I suppose it does explain a great many things from the past, but I prefer not to think about it that way. I'm extremely grateful that I have received the help I need, but thinking about this now, I am a bit wistful for the years when I just lived moment to moment and didn't categorize, define, ruminate on why I was feeling the way I did. I guess in an ideal world, I'd rather have the help I need (which I have now) while at the same time the concept of 'mental illness' be nonexistent.
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