Having bipolar disorder has made me a wonderful liar. There are so many little lies I tell every single day. What's that medicine? Oh, it's the end of a course of antibiotics. What doctor's appointment? This one's tricky - physical therapy is a great excuse. Why aren't you drinking tonight? Most recently, most poignantly: Why do you want to be a doctor?
It's easy to wonder if these lies are necessary. He seems like a great person and the date was going exceptionally well. Then, he asked me why I wanted to make this career change and I lied. The date continued to go well, but I felt that I had cheated him, and myself, and our burgeoning acquaintance. On the other hand, I do not believe that he would have called me again if I had told him the truth about why I quit my lovely job and beautiful city. You don't drop a mental illness over a couple of beers on the first date. So I held back, concealed this part of me, and it felt wrong because I'm not a typically guarded person. I felt like I hadn't shown him my best self, precisely because I liked him and I wanted to see him again.
Sometimes I feel like a huge hypocrite - I write this blog, exposing my life and my vulnerabilities in what I believe to be an open and honest way, and yet I can't tell people I interact with simple truths: I have bipolar II disorder. I take two psychiatric medications and they save me every single day. I function normally almost all the time, but much of the time it is harder than seems fair or right. I spent one year of my life essentially on disability, sorting all these things out. I struggle with decisions because I now believe that little thing in my life has an enormous effect on my stability and my survival. I want to be a doctor because I want to reduce the amount of suffering in the world, because I know how this one type of suffering feels in the best of circumstances and it is unthinkable in the worst.
Instead, a different story unfolds: I worked at my first job for two years and my second, living the yuppie life in San Francisco for three years. I get cranky if I don't sleep so I keep to rigid patterns and I am often unreasonable with my schedule and resentful of those who disrupt it. I am flaky and sometimes suddenly cancel plans for no apparent reason and emerge the next day seeming perfectly normal. I struggle with decisions because I'm indecisive and obsessive. I want to be a doctor because someone in my family struggles with mental illness.
I like the first narrative better. I like it because it is real, and because I have survived it and lived it and become a better, more compassionate, more loving, infinitely stronger person. But for now, at least in person, I stick to the second. And order another round.
It's easy to wonder if these lies are necessary. He seems like a great person and the date was going exceptionally well. Then, he asked me why I wanted to make this career change and I lied. The date continued to go well, but I felt that I had cheated him, and myself, and our burgeoning acquaintance. On the other hand, I do not believe that he would have called me again if I had told him the truth about why I quit my lovely job and beautiful city. You don't drop a mental illness over a couple of beers on the first date. So I held back, concealed this part of me, and it felt wrong because I'm not a typically guarded person. I felt like I hadn't shown him my best self, precisely because I liked him and I wanted to see him again.
Sometimes I feel like a huge hypocrite - I write this blog, exposing my life and my vulnerabilities in what I believe to be an open and honest way, and yet I can't tell people I interact with simple truths: I have bipolar II disorder. I take two psychiatric medications and they save me every single day. I function normally almost all the time, but much of the time it is harder than seems fair or right. I spent one year of my life essentially on disability, sorting all these things out. I struggle with decisions because I now believe that little thing in my life has an enormous effect on my stability and my survival. I want to be a doctor because I want to reduce the amount of suffering in the world, because I know how this one type of suffering feels in the best of circumstances and it is unthinkable in the worst.
Instead, a different story unfolds: I worked at my first job for two years and my second, living the yuppie life in San Francisco for three years. I get cranky if I don't sleep so I keep to rigid patterns and I am often unreasonable with my schedule and resentful of those who disrupt it. I am flaky and sometimes suddenly cancel plans for no apparent reason and emerge the next day seeming perfectly normal. I struggle with decisions because I'm indecisive and obsessive. I want to be a doctor because someone in my family struggles with mental illness.
I like the first narrative better. I like it because it is real, and because I have survived it and lived it and become a better, more compassionate, more loving, infinitely stronger person. But for now, at least in person, I stick to the second. And order another round.
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