A few days ago I finally accepted that I have bipolar. Earlier on, when I talked about it, I’d usually say that I was diagnosed with bipolar but I don’t really identify with it. I guess that was because I never overspend, never do anything risky (except of course staying employed by Home Group) and never (for a long time) have sex with strangers.

It is even difficult for me to clasify my past psychotic episodes as mania. It always made more sense to me that they were just that: psychotic episodes. Even the fact that apparently 27% of autistic people also have bipolar didn’t seem to convince me. Even the fact that my dad had bipolar didn’t do anything to help me accept reality.

And finally depression did. I’ve been taking my meds regularly for the past couple of months but unfortunately olanzapine is not for depression; it’s for mania, so when my mood changed, sometimes in the middle of January, I needed something else. But I ignored it. Admitting I suddenly needed something to lift my depression would mean that I am in fact bipolar.

Eventually I spelled it out to my care coordinator: I can’t continue like that any longer. I need help.

At the time I felt so low and unmotivated that I’d have no more than 3 drinks between 6am and 6pm. I couldn’t be bothered to get up to make another cup of tea or coffee and then to go to the toilet. I would usually still eat something three times a day but it would be a very basic meal. Of course I needed to get out of the house to buy food.

It’s a little bit better now because I at least have the energy to scroll Facebook and, if I don’t feel like making a cup of tea, I at least drink water or squash. I’m really looking forward to see my psychiatrist in a couple of days. I specifically want to try lamotrigine, it’s a mood stabiliser that works better on the depression spectrum.

I can’t wait. Although at the same time I can’t imagine that I’d be in the same mood permanently. It’s not like me at all.

Bipolar.