All of the bipolar books talk about acceptance and how hard it is. But that didn't apply to me - because I wasn't sick, see. That only applied to sick people. I wasn't sick, so I didn't have anything to accept. OK, it might not be normal to cry for hours on end in fetal position for months, but then again, it could be normal. Given the right set of circumstances. And every week that went by without getting better proved my point. If I was sick, medicine would make it better. Since medicine wasn't making it better, I wasn't sick. Totally logical.
Then yesterday one of my fellow campers had a bit of a melt down, poor thing. And the way they described how they were feeling was exactly how I had been feeling (OK - without the ruminations, I appear to be unique in that area). But the overwhelming sadness, the constant thoughts of death, the hopelessness, the deep and vast pit that exists within you - all the same. I started to think how could someone so vastly different than me, different lifestyles, different gender, different problems, different job, different everything, have the exact same thoughts I did. OK, maybe its because the thoughts are symptoms of the same illness. Maybe.
Not sure yet. But maybe.
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