I’m quite possibly the worst person to bring to any amusement park, because I refuse to step foot on a single thrill ride. Perpetually labeled “designated bag holder”, I much prefer to keep myself planted safely on the ground. For someone with Bipolar Disorder, you’d think I’d be used to being thrown around against my will, going up until I’m high enough to see and do anything, only to come crashing down the next second with no warning.
This roller coaster analogy is the only way I can think to describe the feeling of manic depression to those who don’t have this diagnosis. My parents have always joked that there were two of me, and I couldn’t agree more. The difference between people while their manic compared to when they’re in a depressive state can be jarring to those who care about them.
One minute, you’re with this lively social endearingly psychotic man/woman, and the next you can’t even manage to get a hold of them via text or force them from their bed to brush their matted hair. This has always thrown those I love for a loop. My family members, for the most part, can recognize my different stages and somehow manage to cope with the numerous versions of their daughter and sister that occasionally make their appearance.
Has she locked herself away? Don’t push it, she will snap out of it.
Is she talking so fast it’s hard to comprehend her sentences? Laugh at her wit and compliment her eccentric makeup choices.