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The nurse directed me back to a small room in the ER where Dr. B, my psychiatrist, was waiting.
I flashed a nervous smile, pulled my sleeves over the self-inflicted cuts on my arm and said, “I’m not doing good.”
He motioned to the chair and I sat.
“I think we need to change our plans Kim. I’m going to put you on a mood stabilizer and an anti-psychotic, ones that we use to treat people with bipolar disorder.”
“Kim, you are bipolar.”
The magnitude of the diagnosis forcefully shook the smooth path of life that I was desperately trying to get back on.
I watched as it bent and curved and crumbled.
It grew hills and jagged mountains.
The path, once full of promise, now looked vapid; felt hauntingly uninviting.
It was too loud and too quiet.
It was too bright and too dark.
It felt too euphoric and too depressed and too angry.
It was too peaceful and too whimsical.
All at the same time.
You can read more of my guest post at Butterfly Confessions