On Being Diagnosed at 30

This is Part 2 in a series about mental illness — specifically, mine. Here’s Part 1.

I saw my shrink yesterday. The verdict on Type 2 Bipolar: guilty.

She said that it’s a tricky one to diagnose even in people with boring histories. For someone like me, it’s even more challenging.

The prognosis according to the DSM-IV TR doesn’t make me feel great:

For more severe cases, prognosis is poor in terms of ’curing’ the illness, as most people need to remain on medication for their entire lives. The manic episodes may slow down as a result of the natural aging process. With medication, the illness can be kept at a minimum level, with some people not experiencing any overt symptoms for months and even years.

However, there are definitely varying degrees of this illness and it is not difficult to misdiagnose due to it’s similarity to other mood disorders. If the illness is not severe, often times medication and therapy can do very well in terms of treatment. And, life experience, strong support, and an openness to improve can be enough sometimes to make a difference in outcome.

I definitely have life experience, strong support, and an openness to improve, but “can be enough sometimes”? Can be enough? Sometimes? That’s all those things get me?

Furthermore, my shrink told me that two of the most difficult disorders to treat pharmacologically are OCD and Bipolar Disorder. I have both! Can’t wait to ride this new roller coaster.

On the one hand, it answers a lot of questions. It explains why some days I have zero thoughts and can’t function, and why other days I have a million thoughts but still can’t function. It fills in the blanks that depression couldn’t. On the other hand, I can’t help but wonder what my 20s would have been like if I had been diagnosed earlier. I flunked out of college — three times. I moved from city to city. I had some grand adventures, but often they felt empty, like I was doing them just to do them.

And then there’s the fact that I have without a doubt internalized the stigma attached to this crap. The other day I was watching Bob’s Burgers (one of my favorite shows, obv), and Linda’s “crazy” sister showed up and announced, “Guess who’s on new meds!” And I felt gross. It made the hell I went through with Pristiq seem like a cheap punchline.

It’s weird. At 30, I thought I had at least learned all the basics about myself. I guess I was wrong.