Showing posts with label acceptance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label acceptance. Show all posts
Friday, September 28, 2012
"Life is the only real counselor..." *
With a soft, southern drawl harking back to his Arkansas roots, Kevin Thompson’s voice invites you to sit back and be comfortable, open up, talk about yourself, and discuss the heavy things of life or laugh at the craziness of it all. That’s a good thing because Kevin is a counselor at the local mental health center. Getting people to open up can be a difficult thing when they are dealing with bipolar, depression, schizophrenia, or any number of other mental illnesses. But Kevin has a voice, and a knack, for letting people feel they can safely do just that. It also helps that Kevin knows quite a lot about what you are going through; he himself has bipolar disorder.
“I know the depths of the pits, the highest peaks of the tallest mountains, and everything in between.”
And indeed he does.
After leaving college in his early twenties (he freely admits to being there for “nothing but fun”), Kevin joined the Air Force as a firefighter. He was active duty for three years and twenty days. Before he left, however, he was hospitalized for what was eventually diagnosed as bipolar disorder. Mania. Depression. It was all there and it came to a point where being inpatient was required.
It was not a positive experience.
“They didn’t know what the hell they were doing,” he says of the hospital staff. “They were babysitting me…thinking I was just faking for a medical discharge.”
He wasn’t faking, and he did get medically discharged.
That time spent in the hospital became his inspiration to become a counselor.
Armed with his experiences in the military’s psychiatric hospital and an understanding of what it was to be bipolar, he returned to school to pursue a degree in psychology.
In spite of dealing with his own illness, Kevin graduated with his Bachelor’s degree at 25 years of age and his Master’s at 27. During that time, he worked at the mental health clinic as a peer counselor. Now a licensed counselor, he has two peer counselors working under him. (A peer counselor is a person who has similar issues as the people he or she is helping and is successfully dealing with them.) The program Kevin leads helps about twenty clients in various group and individual sessions.
When his clients find out that Kevin is “one of them”, their first reaction is often surprise.
“Oh, really?” they ask him. “Can you do that?”
He points to all the certificates and licenses on his wall and assures them that yes, he can do this.
Not that everyone thought he could. The vocational rehabilitation counselor at the VA hospital told him that he couldn’t become a counselor.
Kevin’s response to that was, “Are you sure about that?”
“I was going to do it whether or not he thought I could,” Kevin says emphatically.
And he is doing it.
That isn’t to say it’s easy all the time. “I feel less effective when my meds wear off in the morning,” he admits. “I still do (all my work); it’s just harder.”
Still, one of the best things about his job, he says, is when the clients look at him and say, “You know what you’re talking about.”
Asked about his motto for his counseling career or his life with bipolar, Kevin is quick to answer: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” He quotes not Freud or Jung, but Saint Paul.
He has Christ, and he has his family. Kevin’s biggest fan club is comprised of three matriarchs in his family: “Momma, Memaw, and Auntie.” Asked how they encourage him, he says with a childlike grin, “They tell me how wonderful I am.” His father, too, is a big supporter. When Kevin took home pamphlets on bipolar disorder, his father not only read them, but took them to work to share with others. His bipolar is not a secret or a shame in his family. Kevin is just Kevin.
In spite of all the difficulties having bipolar can bring, Kevin still counts it a blessing in his life, especially as it pertains to his counseling.
“It’s helped me understand the extremes of human emotion,” he says, “and to be able to talk people away from the edge.”
* Edith Wharton
Monday, September 10, 2012
"A Heartbeat is a Lovebeat..." *
There is in her mind a safe and quiet spot, though she doesn't always remember where she put it. When she is in need of a place where she can hide...where she can bury her face in something warm and soft and hear again the steady rhythm of life beating in a heart not her own, she remembers that safe and quiet spot...and she goes there.
She is two. Or she is four or five or six. She can't be more than nine because nine is when her grandmother developed leukemia and nine is when her grandmother died.
However old she is...she is still small enough to be picked up. Or to be invited up. And held in the ample lap and bosom of her father's mother. The grandmother that is old and wrinkly and smells of soft powder.
The other grandmother, younger, holds her, too. But in a smaller lap. The other grandmother is the grandmother that she does things with -- the library and walks and cooking and laughing and discussing things that small minds concoct.
But this is the farm grandmother. The Grandma and not the Nana. It is the Grandma holding her that she remembers most.
So, she is young and small. And she is held.
Grandma picks her up. This year. And this year. And the next year.
This next year, Grandma says, as she always does, "You have grown!"
And this is the year that Grandma doesn't scoop her up and whisk her away to a rocker, though her little brothers are still scoopable and whiskable and rockable.
She worries, seeing her baby brother in her grandmother's arms, that she has been somewhat replaced. But she says nothing. Just sits in the big farm kitchen watching Grandma rock baby Jay.
She loves Jay. And is proud of him. And glad for him that Grandma is rocking him.
She isn't jealous...and doesn't wish him away. But she worries that her own lap time is over for good and she is afraid.
If a little girl gets too big to be held and rocked...what then does she do?
When will she breathe deeply and smell the scent of soft, aged skin and a woman's favorite powder? When will she know again the feel of an apron against her cheek that carries with it the aroma of this morning's bacon frying and tonight's cinnamony apple pie?
When will she snuggle up against a woman softer than a pillow and stronger than iron? When will she hear the voice of a woman deep in the heart?
"Kim" -- her name -- she hears often. But in the timbre in her Grandma's chest, "Kim" sounds magical...and deep...and mystical...and safe...and...enduring.
If she is so big that Grandma cannot pick her up. If she is too big to be invited to climb into her Grandma's lap. What then?
She doesn't remember Jay falling asleep. Or that Jamie is outside with Grandpa and the piglets.
She knows that Mom is sitting at the table as Jay is rocked and they are talking -- Mom and Grandma. So she sits...in the heat of a summer kitchen with a breeze blowing through the open windows...listening to the talk and watching her brother snuggle in their Grandma's arms.
"I've grown," she thinks as the conversation and rhythm of the rocking chair drift around her and through her.
Her arms are longer. Her legs are longer. Her knees are knobby and her legs are white because it is early summer and her shorts are new. She is not so grown that her feet touch the floor when she sits in the big dining room chair, though. And she thinks about that as she sits sideways in the chair watching her grandmother and watching her mom.
She puts one arm around the back of the chair and one arm on the big dining table and scootches a little closer to the edge of the side of the seat...and her dangling bare feet touch the cool wooden floor. But only with the toes.
Since she has grown and now her feet touch the floor...she stays put a while. Listening. Watching. Feeling -- the breeze and the floor and the bit of sweat.
She doesn't notice when Jay falls asleep and Mom takes him upstairs to put him in the crib.
The crib is in "her" room. The room she stays in whenever they all visit Grandma and Grandpa. It was Daddy's crib. And everyone -- all the cousins -- even she -- has slept in it at one time or another. It is Jay's turn now.
The crib is by her bed and at night she listens as Jay sleeps his baby sleep beside her. It too is a safe and comforting thing...listening to baby sleep. But not the same as being held and rocked in Grandma's lap.
So Mom and Jay have gone upstairs.
It is just Grandma and herself in the big farm kitchen for now.
She looks at her Grandma and smiles a small smile.
Grandma smiles back.
"Grandma?" she says. "Can I ask you a question?"
"It's 'may I'," says Grandma who was a school teacher in old-timey days in a one-room schoolhouse. "And yes, you may."
"Am I too big?"
Grandma doesn't even have to ask "Too big for what?" -- she only holds out her arms and says, "Come here, child."
And she goes over to stand in front of her Grandma. Afraid that she will be told she is indeed "too big" -- and that powder and softness and the sound of her name in her Grandma's heart are a thing of the past.
"No," says Grandma. "I mean...come *here*, Kim."
And she pats her lap before spreading her arms wider. "My lap," Grandma says. "Come here and I will rock you."
Still worried that she is too big...she climbs cautiously into Grandma's lap.
Grandma touches her head and pulls it close to her shoulder, then rests for a moment with one arm encircling her back to front, and one hand brushing her still baby-fine hair.
"Kim," she whispers, "You'll never be too big to be held by Grandma Giger."
And they rock.
Quietly.
And she is content deep inside herself and it seems the two -- the Grandma and the Child -- become one for a while. They breathe in and they breathe out at the same time. She listens to her Grandmother's heart and realizes that her own is beating in rhythm with it.
When Mom comes downstairs, she smiles at her daughter -- her eldest -- wrapped up in the arms of her Grandmother's love. And she sits at the table. The two grown-ups begin talking again...of things that she knows little of...because for all her being so grown up now, she is still a little girl.
She stays silent. Listening. Watching. Feeling...the woman that is her grandmother, her father's mother, the beginning of the world for all she knows so far.
She doesn't move because it seems as if a magical wonderful spell of love has been woven...and it is soft and fine as a fairy spider web...and she doesn't want a sudden motion to break it away.
She is 20 now. Or 30 or 37 or 41. She can't be more than 41 because her birthday hasn't come yet this year.
She doesn't ever remember leaving her Grandma's lap that day...though she knows, of course, she did.
There was dinner that night.
There was a party for Grandma and Grandpa's 60th anniversary.
There was a funeral and tears.
No, she doesn't remember leaving Grandma's lap that day. Though she's walked many places since then and knows of course that she did.
But she still can hear the sound of her name...against the backdrop of her Grandmother's heartbeat...and it quiets her and stills her...in ways she can't explain.
And she wonders now...that magic she felt? How much of it was childhood fantasy...and how much of it was God...knitting together two hearts forever...?
It was the last time that Grandma ever had the chance to hold her that way again.
And now, she thinks the magic was God.
* "Heartbeat , It's A Lovebeat" Lyrics by the DiFranco Family
She is two. Or she is four or five or six. She can't be more than nine because nine is when her grandmother developed leukemia and nine is when her grandmother died.
However old she is...she is still small enough to be picked up. Or to be invited up. And held in the ample lap and bosom of her father's mother. The grandmother that is old and wrinkly and smells of soft powder.
The other grandmother, younger, holds her, too. But in a smaller lap. The other grandmother is the grandmother that she does things with -- the library and walks and cooking and laughing and discussing things that small minds concoct.
But this is the farm grandmother. The Grandma and not the Nana. It is the Grandma holding her that she remembers most.
So, she is young and small. And she is held.
Grandma picks her up. This year. And this year. And the next year.
This next year, Grandma says, as she always does, "You have grown!"
And this is the year that Grandma doesn't scoop her up and whisk her away to a rocker, though her little brothers are still scoopable and whiskable and rockable.
She worries, seeing her baby brother in her grandmother's arms, that she has been somewhat replaced. But she says nothing. Just sits in the big farm kitchen watching Grandma rock baby Jay.
She loves Jay. And is proud of him. And glad for him that Grandma is rocking him.
She isn't jealous...and doesn't wish him away. But she worries that her own lap time is over for good and she is afraid.
If a little girl gets too big to be held and rocked...what then does she do?
When will she breathe deeply and smell the scent of soft, aged skin and a woman's favorite powder? When will she know again the feel of an apron against her cheek that carries with it the aroma of this morning's bacon frying and tonight's cinnamony apple pie?
When will she snuggle up against a woman softer than a pillow and stronger than iron? When will she hear the voice of a woman deep in the heart?
"Kim" -- her name -- she hears often. But in the timbre in her Grandma's chest, "Kim" sounds magical...and deep...and mystical...and safe...and...enduring.
If she is so big that Grandma cannot pick her up. If she is too big to be invited to climb into her Grandma's lap. What then?
She doesn't remember Jay falling asleep. Or that Jamie is outside with Grandpa and the piglets.
She knows that Mom is sitting at the table as Jay is rocked and they are talking -- Mom and Grandma. So she sits...in the heat of a summer kitchen with a breeze blowing through the open windows...listening to the talk and watching her brother snuggle in their Grandma's arms.
"I've grown," she thinks as the conversation and rhythm of the rocking chair drift around her and through her.
Her arms are longer. Her legs are longer. Her knees are knobby and her legs are white because it is early summer and her shorts are new. She is not so grown that her feet touch the floor when she sits in the big dining room chair, though. And she thinks about that as she sits sideways in the chair watching her grandmother and watching her mom.
She puts one arm around the back of the chair and one arm on the big dining table and scootches a little closer to the edge of the side of the seat...and her dangling bare feet touch the cool wooden floor. But only with the toes.
Since she has grown and now her feet touch the floor...she stays put a while. Listening. Watching. Feeling -- the breeze and the floor and the bit of sweat.
She doesn't notice when Jay falls asleep and Mom takes him upstairs to put him in the crib.
The crib is in "her" room. The room she stays in whenever they all visit Grandma and Grandpa. It was Daddy's crib. And everyone -- all the cousins -- even she -- has slept in it at one time or another. It is Jay's turn now.
The crib is by her bed and at night she listens as Jay sleeps his baby sleep beside her. It too is a safe and comforting thing...listening to baby sleep. But not the same as being held and rocked in Grandma's lap.
So Mom and Jay have gone upstairs.
It is just Grandma and herself in the big farm kitchen for now.
She looks at her Grandma and smiles a small smile.
Grandma smiles back.
"Grandma?" she says. "Can I ask you a question?"
"It's 'may I'," says Grandma who was a school teacher in old-timey days in a one-room schoolhouse. "And yes, you may."
"Am I too big?"
Grandma doesn't even have to ask "Too big for what?" -- she only holds out her arms and says, "Come here, child."
And she goes over to stand in front of her Grandma. Afraid that she will be told she is indeed "too big" -- and that powder and softness and the sound of her name in her Grandma's heart are a thing of the past.
"No," says Grandma. "I mean...come *here*, Kim."
And she pats her lap before spreading her arms wider. "My lap," Grandma says. "Come here and I will rock you."
Still worried that she is too big...she climbs cautiously into Grandma's lap.
Grandma touches her head and pulls it close to her shoulder, then rests for a moment with one arm encircling her back to front, and one hand brushing her still baby-fine hair.
"Kim," she whispers, "You'll never be too big to be held by Grandma Giger."
And they rock.
Quietly.
And she is content deep inside herself and it seems the two -- the Grandma and the Child -- become one for a while. They breathe in and they breathe out at the same time. She listens to her Grandmother's heart and realizes that her own is beating in rhythm with it.
When Mom comes downstairs, she smiles at her daughter -- her eldest -- wrapped up in the arms of her Grandmother's love. And she sits at the table. The two grown-ups begin talking again...of things that she knows little of...because for all her being so grown up now, she is still a little girl.
She stays silent. Listening. Watching. Feeling...the woman that is her grandmother, her father's mother, the beginning of the world for all she knows so far.
She doesn't move because it seems as if a magical wonderful spell of love has been woven...and it is soft and fine as a fairy spider web...and she doesn't want a sudden motion to break it away.
She is 20 now. Or 30 or 37 or 41. She can't be more than 41 because her birthday hasn't come yet this year.
She doesn't ever remember leaving her Grandma's lap that day...though she knows, of course, she did.
There was dinner that night.
There was a party for Grandma and Grandpa's 60th anniversary.
There was a funeral and tears.
No, she doesn't remember leaving Grandma's lap that day. Though she's walked many places since then and knows of course that she did.
But she still can hear the sound of her name...against the backdrop of her Grandmother's heartbeat...and it quiets her and stills her...in ways she can't explain.
And she wonders now...that magic she felt? How much of it was childhood fantasy...and how much of it was God...knitting together two hearts forever...?
It was the last time that Grandma ever had the chance to hold her that way again.
And now, she thinks the magic was God.
* "Heartbeat , It's A Lovebeat" Lyrics by the DiFranco Family
Saturday, July 21, 2012
"...A flibbertigibbet, a will-o'-the-wisp, a clown." *
In "The Sound of Music", the nuns have a difficult time describing the young novitiate Maria. She wants to be a nun, she wants to be good, she wants to do well, but...well...she's young, inexperienced, unconventional, and she (can you believe it?) sings in the abbey!
In trying to find one word to describe this confusing, yet charming, being, the nuns come up with "flibbertigibbet", "will-o'-the-wisp", and "clown".
So what were the nuns actually saying about Maria? According to the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/flibbertigibbet), they thought she was a "silly, flighty person." Ouch. Silly and flighty. Easily distracted. Jumping from thought to thought, and none of those very profound.
What about "will-o'-the-wisp"? Back to the dictionary, which says this: "a delusive or elusive goal". Let's just skip the fact that Maria is a person, and not a goal, why is she delusive and/or elusive? Is it because the nuns aren't able to think the way she thinks, see the way she sees, sense the way she senses, feel the way she feels? That's only delusive (delusional?) from their point of view. I'm sure she makes perfect sense inside herself. At least most of the time.
And finally there is that word "clown". Here things really go downhill for Maria. Merriam-Webster has all of this to say about that:
Some of the nuns disdained Maria for her differences. Some loved her in spite of them. It wasn't until late in the story, however, that she was loved and accepted simply because she was Maria.
I know many of the words people have used to describe me in my life. "Crazy" (generally in a good way, sometimes in a bemused way). "Different" (always in with a suspicious look in my direction). "Funny" (my favorite). "Molly Motormouth" (from Mom, when I wouldn't stop talking) or "blabbermouth" (from people who weren't quite as well-meaning in wanting me to calm down and be quiet).
There were people who thought I was "hyper". There were people who just didn't want to be around me because I was "unusual", I "stood out", I didn't "fit in", and I "didn't make sense."
As far as I know, though, no one ever made up a song about me, and I am quite sure there is no musical in the making about my "crazy, different, funny" life.
This much is true, however: after having symptoms that even I did not know were symptoms for pretty much my entire life, I was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 2005. I had been in a pretty manic cycle for several years then hit a depression that I couldn't shake. I ended up dealing with visual hallucinations both inside and outside my head, and finally wound up hospitalized six times in 15 months while meds were tried and adjusted.
From 2000 to 2004, I was a reporter/editor/photographer/columnist for my hometown newspaper. When I was manic, I had little need for sleep (or just flat out couldn't sleep). My columns were funny. My friends and I laughed deep and long. People I worked with outside my job found me amusing (at least a few did, anyway; I know there were plenty that just wished I'd go away). When I was depressed, my columns were filled with deep thoughts and observations. My columns were written weekly, and I almost never had difficulty writing them. The ideas just flowed for me. The words appeared sometimes as if by magic. I would edit to make things make better sense, to make my column fit in the allotted space, and to tighten my writing. But it wasn't hard.
When the doctor told me my diagnosis during my fourth hospitalization, I was furious! I was scared it meant I wasn't really funny...really engaging...really liked. That maybe my creativity was just some freak combination of chemicals, lack of sleep, and yes, craziness. If we treated the bipolar, would I become boring? Would I lose my friends? Would I not be able to write anymore?
The joy of modern medicine (and the fact that it is still called "practicing medicine") means that sometimes being treated has made the answer to all those questions:"Yes."
Quick quips and banter, long my hallmark, fell by the wayside as I negotiated the wilderness of learning what medicines worked and which ones didn't.
Some friends and acquaintances backed away because I'm not-so-quiet about my diagnosis (love me, or leave me, I say).
Worst of all, writing became difficult and burdensome, then non-existant. Finally even reading became too much.
Some meds sedated me so much that I lost all personality, all sense of caring about anything, all motivation. Others did nothing for me, and the mania and the depression broke through again, wreaking havoc. For now, I'm on a regimen of meds that means very little break-through symptoms which makes my life much more comfortable.
Most of all though, this regimen doesn't steal my creativity. The ideas may not flood my mind like they used to (and that's actually a small blessing), but the seeds are there and they grow. The words don't just appear...sometimes I have to dig through my mind, my thesaurus, whatever...just to find what I want. And that can just be regular words like "foot" or "pencil". Forget describing someone as a "flibbertigibbet" or a "will-o'-the-wisp".
One thing I have discovered, however, since the diagnosis was made, is that a diagnosis is just a diagnosis. A person is still a person. I am still me. Maria was just Maria. Ephemeral? Leaping from thought to thought? Overly happy or exuberant? Sometimes. Maybe not the best behaved? Well, there's that, too.
But like Maria, I know that some will disdain me or be suspicious of me for my bipolar. Some will accept me in spite of my bipolar. And others, those lovely others who make life worth living, will (and do) accept me just because I'm me.
May we all have a von Trapp cheering section with us...in word and in deed...as we go through our lives with our various differences.
In trying to find one word to describe this confusing, yet charming, being, the nuns come up with "flibbertigibbet", "will-o'-the-wisp", and "clown".
So what were the nuns actually saying about Maria? According to the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/flibbertigibbet), they thought she was a "silly, flighty person." Ouch. Silly and flighty. Easily distracted. Jumping from thought to thought, and none of those very profound.
What about "will-o'-the-wisp"? Back to the dictionary, which says this: "a delusive or elusive goal". Let's just skip the fact that Maria is a person, and not a goal, why is she delusive and/or elusive? Is it because the nuns aren't able to think the way she thinks, see the way she sees, sense the way she senses, feel the way she feels? That's only delusive (delusional?) from their point of view. I'm sure she makes perfect sense inside herself. At least most of the time.
And finally there is that word "clown". Here things really go downhill for Maria. Merriam-Webster has all of this to say about that:
1: farmer, countryman
2: a rude ill-bred person : boor
3 a: a fool, jester, or comedian in an entertainment (as a play); specifically: a
grotesquely dressed comedy performer in a circus b: a person who habitually
jokes and plays the buffoon
Since the majority of the nuns seemed little amused by Maria's apparent antics, it appears to me they thought of her as rude and ill-bred in manners and decorum. Maybe some just thought she was altogether foolish. She didn't mean to be out of place, yet she was.
Some of the nuns disdained Maria for her differences. Some loved her in spite of them. It wasn't until late in the story, however, that she was loved and accepted simply because she was Maria.
I know many of the words people have used to describe me in my life. "Crazy" (generally in a good way, sometimes in a bemused way). "Different" (always in with a suspicious look in my direction). "Funny" (my favorite). "Molly Motormouth" (from Mom, when I wouldn't stop talking) or "blabbermouth" (from people who weren't quite as well-meaning in wanting me to calm down and be quiet).
There were people who thought I was "hyper". There were people who just didn't want to be around me because I was "unusual", I "stood out", I didn't "fit in", and I "didn't make sense."
As far as I know, though, no one ever made up a song about me, and I am quite sure there is no musical in the making about my "crazy, different, funny" life.
This much is true, however: after having symptoms that even I did not know were symptoms for pretty much my entire life, I was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 2005. I had been in a pretty manic cycle for several years then hit a depression that I couldn't shake. I ended up dealing with visual hallucinations both inside and outside my head, and finally wound up hospitalized six times in 15 months while meds were tried and adjusted.
From 2000 to 2004, I was a reporter/editor/photographer/columnist for my hometown newspaper. When I was manic, I had little need for sleep (or just flat out couldn't sleep). My columns were funny. My friends and I laughed deep and long. People I worked with outside my job found me amusing (at least a few did, anyway; I know there were plenty that just wished I'd go away). When I was depressed, my columns were filled with deep thoughts and observations. My columns were written weekly, and I almost never had difficulty writing them. The ideas just flowed for me. The words appeared sometimes as if by magic. I would edit to make things make better sense, to make my column fit in the allotted space, and to tighten my writing. But it wasn't hard.
When the doctor told me my diagnosis during my fourth hospitalization, I was furious! I was scared it meant I wasn't really funny...really engaging...really liked. That maybe my creativity was just some freak combination of chemicals, lack of sleep, and yes, craziness. If we treated the bipolar, would I become boring? Would I lose my friends? Would I not be able to write anymore?
The joy of modern medicine (and the fact that it is still called "practicing medicine") means that sometimes being treated has made the answer to all those questions:"Yes."
Quick quips and banter, long my hallmark, fell by the wayside as I negotiated the wilderness of learning what medicines worked and which ones didn't.
Some friends and acquaintances backed away because I'm not-so-quiet about my diagnosis (love me, or leave me, I say).
Worst of all, writing became difficult and burdensome, then non-existant. Finally even reading became too much.
Some meds sedated me so much that I lost all personality, all sense of caring about anything, all motivation. Others did nothing for me, and the mania and the depression broke through again, wreaking havoc. For now, I'm on a regimen of meds that means very little break-through symptoms which makes my life much more comfortable.
Most of all though, this regimen doesn't steal my creativity. The ideas may not flood my mind like they used to (and that's actually a small blessing), but the seeds are there and they grow. The words don't just appear...sometimes I have to dig through my mind, my thesaurus, whatever...just to find what I want. And that can just be regular words like "foot" or "pencil". Forget describing someone as a "flibbertigibbet" or a "will-o'-the-wisp".
One thing I have discovered, however, since the diagnosis was made, is that a diagnosis is just a diagnosis. A person is still a person. I am still me. Maria was just Maria. Ephemeral? Leaping from thought to thought? Overly happy or exuberant? Sometimes. Maybe not the best behaved? Well, there's that, too.
But like Maria, I know that some will disdain me or be suspicious of me for my bipolar. Some will accept me in spite of my bipolar. And others, those lovely others who make life worth living, will (and do) accept me just because I'm me.
May we all have a von Trapp cheering section with us...in word and in deed...as we go through our lives with our various differences.
* "Maria", from "The Sound of Music" (Lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II)
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