Quote:
Originally Posted by girlinterrupted2
I'm sorry to hear about what you are going through. I'm 46 and I was just recently diagnosed with bipolar 2 and BPD. I guess what confuses me is when I have an episode weather which disease it is. Then again I guess it really doesn't matter just as long as I get the right medication and therapy to help me through it. I can agree that it is particularly challenging because you just don't know which one you are dealing with.
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A breath, deep, deeper, deepest.
Pause.
It’s unusual, I think, to become the benevolent beneficiary of such RIGHT HORROR SHOW diagnoses in your fifth generation.
I would like to offer, if I can be so bold, my help; based only upon my experiences.
You can know which BPD+ symptoms that you’re experiencing. Keep a list of the separate symptoms and when you feel or exhibit something different - an oncoming depressive state, that horrible (for me) misery of continuing abandonment, on and on and on... tick that symptom. I don’t believe that crappy mysticism can keep you sane. Mindfulness - CBT - all cop-outs. Therapy and meds, yes, can help. BUT. I don’t know how to say this... it helps me to cope with symptoms if I maintain an ability to recognise the symptoms and to separate them. Treat them as scholarly discoveries, separate from ‘self.’
You have symptoms. You don’t have to be those symptoms. You can recognise that you need help; self-admit if you fear harm.
I am at a loss for words. Uncommon for me.
One thing: I don’t think that calling mental illnesses ‘diseases’ are really accurate. These aren’t cancers or infections and, although certainly synonymous with ‘disease,’ I tend to stay with ‘illness’ or ‘disorder’ because I do have mental disorders.
You’re new here. I am old but recently a visitor. I am quick to chastise and slow to hurt but I ache for you. I’m almost 13 years your elder but, at your age, at your age, Jesus; I was confined.
It can get better. The drugs - those dozens of meds - have been reduced and I feel as if I sprung forth living when I met my medicine match. From over a dozen to four meds; twice monthly therapy and it’s been (what?) 22 years since I felt this good?
I’m not - I can’t - enjoy many more years. My body is my greatest enemy and my face is freshly wounded by my most recent bouts with a failing heart. I have little pride in my behaviour during my life but I am so damned happy to have lived.
In the sage words of Malachi Constant, “I was the victim of a series of accidents, as are we all.”