I told my Manager in work a few months ago, my thinking being that 1) I sort of owed it to them 2) I would then be covered by the Disability Rights Act 3) if I had to have time off work I wouldn’t have to lie that I had a bug, or a sore foot, or plague.
But it took months of prevaricating before I finally found the strength to tell my 12 year old son. It was a difficult job, but I’m glad I did so, and it’s made things easier for both of us. He obviously suspected something was (medically) wrong with me. ‘Is that why you get annoyed about little things sometimes?’ Yes, indeed it is.
Very few people other than Mental Healthcare professionals know about my illness, even after 35+ years. Less than half a dozen, I should think.
And that’s why this anonymous talking I do here sporadically is so important to me. It’s almost entirely one-sided of course. I don’t know or talk with, in the real world, anyone else with bipolar. I never get to discuss it with anyone other than my therapist. And the psychiatrist on those 2 occasions; not that I’d feel comfortable telling her much. (See previous post.)
So if you’re reading this, if you’re following these posts of mine, I thank you; honestly, from my heart. It helps to know you’re there. You don’t know me, I don’t know you. You’re what my favourite band – Mew – calls ‘Frengers’: not quite friends but more than strangers.
Sometime I might disappear. Who knows. It’s my birthday tomorrow.