I’ve had a string of fairly bad days lately.
Whether they’re an awkwardly shaped piece of my bi-polar puzzle or merely a situational response to the daily bombardment of shitty news upon more shitty news, I’m not entirely sure. At this point, I’m not so much concerned with whether the chicken or the egg came first as I am with merely surviving the bad day regardless of whatever triggered it.
It’s been five months since I was diagnosed with bi-polar II. And, in many ways, my diagnosis has provided a clarity and cathartic rush of relief I didn’t know I needed while, in others, it’s fueled a dread-like sense of anxiety that has woven itself into every facet of my day-to-day life. Accepting the permanence and the indefinite amount of work required of me to live a moderately happy, mostly relapse-free life has not been easy. Hearing the words “Christy, you’re Bi-Polar and is incurable, only managed” felt like an ego bruise on a good day and a life sentence as a day shrouded in darkness. Surrendering to this new reality has not been a flip of a switch, rather it’s been a fluctuating spectrum whose parameters range from full-blown denial to poisonous resentment to palpable anger to mourn-filled sadness.
Depending on the day, it can feel as though I’m existing in purgatory, a level within the game of life that is very strictly governed by the confines of my illness. I’m reasonable enough to understand that it takes time to adjust to this new normal and, as such, finding the right cocktail of medications and lifestyle changes doesn’t happen without adjustment and trial and (mostly) error. But, for fuck’s sake, it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting for every decision I make— decisions I once possessed full agency over— to be dictated by whether or not it will contribute to my wellbeing or serve as self-sabotage.
I recently read an interview with Chantal Miller , once known as Emily Doe, featured on The Cut. Last year, Miller wrote a memoir detailing surviving a sexual assault at the hands of Brock Turner that garnered national attention and scrutiny, watching her perpetrator face essentially little-to-no consequences for his physical violation of her body, as well as the process of putting the physical, mental, and emotional pieces of her life back together. I found the interview (and her beautiful book) to be incredibly powerful. While everyone could benefit from her approach to life and overcoming, it was one particular piece of wisdom that spoke loudly above the rest: When asked how she works through bad days, she said that she forces herself to “go find one good thing.”
Go find one good thing.
Training myself to look beyond the bubble of existential and bleak gloom I frequently exist in and search for one concrete, inarguable instance of good is not only vital, it also serves as catharsis. It is a necessary reminder that even in the midst of being suffocated by feeling overwhelmed and consumed by the nearly-constant internal and external work required of me to feel only mediocre— we’re not talking even moderately HAPPY— I am still capable of seeing and feeling and— most importantly— deserving of good things.
Sometimes that goodness will be superficial. Like today. Today, that one good thing looks like the grey acid-washed Isabel Marant onesie that is not only convenient and comfortable but also manages to create a sense of an active progression towards becoming the fictional lovechild I’ve always dreamed of: a balanced merging of my all-time style idol, Kelly Kapowski, and the queen of witty comebacks and overall Southern outrageousness, Clairee Belcher.
Other times, the one good thing I can find presents itself as another person’ human decency towards another or the sound of my kids laughing together at the same joke in the next room or a neighbor leaving a bundle of fresh vegetables on my porch from her garden. Most days, though, it just looks like being loved. The people who have known me at my best and continue to stand by me while I embody what feels like the worst possible version of myself are the constant good thing and sunshine through all of this.
All of this to say that, five very long months later, I’m not all together entirely fine. I’m better, yes. More emotionally balanced, maybe. Eh, most days, at least. But I’m not what is often taken for granted as normal. What the fuck even is normal?!?! I’m still struggling and still trying to figure out how to deal with all of this and manage it and not let the process of managing it consume me. I’ll get there. I’m sure of it. Maybe not tomorrow but hopefully another tomorrow in the not so distant future.
And until then, I’ll keep finding and being grateful for that one good thing.