Okay, this is likely not going to make any sense to most people because sometimes the things that come out of my brain are nonsense to anyone but myself and a VERY select few people who get me, but here goes anyway.
I sometimes wonder if, in the face of adversity and diagnoses, medications and therapy, blogging about my life and living in it, I may be losing my me-ness. Am I losing myself to everything that is happening to me and within me?
Even having put it here, I'm still not sure it makes sense to me. It's just that I feel like I'm dealing with a little more than I can handle, and, other than here, I'm not sure how to talk it out. It's so much harder to be honest to someone's face than it is on my wonderfully faceless blog. I know people who are close to me read it, but knowing that and seeing their expressions as they take in my craziness are two different things. One I can deal with, the other......well, not so much.
Back on topic, though. Y'see, I'm still dealing with my amnesia and all of the fallout from that, with an added twist. I still have gaps and gray areas, where I can see what happened in my life through almost a fog, most of it so out of focus I might as well not be seeing anything. However, now I am afraid of poking and prodding at those gaps and out of focus areas. I'm not sure I want to know. The last time I poked at my memory with a metaphorical stick, things turned out bad. Very, very bad, with me hurting myself in the worst way possible. Yes, that led to a diagnosis of something I was pretty sure I had, and a lot of revelations of what that means to my life, my universe, and my everything (42, people.) It also lead to revelations of bad things that had already happened to me, ways I'd been hurt and had caused hurt to others, people I know and don't know, that I'm having trouble forgiving myself for. The ripples in the pond that is my life from poking and prodding where I should have left well enough alone may never calm, especially if I keep it up. I don't like having amnesia and I'm not good at leaving well enough alone, but I don't like the intense pain associated with the truth that is my life.
Those ripples in the pond have lead to a new thing to deal with: a secondary persona. Whether she is always there, barely resting beneath the surface of me or was only a temporary/necessary thing I may never know. Once again, as with the fugue, I am faced with something huge in my life I may never know the answer for. I am less content to sit back and accept this than I was with the fugue because remembering a fugue is fairly unique (Possibly completely so. I know I've never heard of regaining ones memory of such a time before, but what do I know. I'm no P-sychiatrist (Hell-oooooooo, Nurse!) and can only go off the number of times I would never remember. Period.) I am less content simply because so many were wrong before, and my brain has this amazing ability to surprise me so very often. It's terrifying and mystifying and wondrous all at once that there is this new puzzle to solve.
Now I'm dealing with bipolar disorder. Sometimes I can joke and laugh at it. Sometimes I can revel in finally understanding why I am the way I am. Most of the time, though, I give in to the fear of the stigma of it, and worry that everything that could be taken as a symptom of it being worse than we first assumed actually is a confirmation of just that. I worry that my meds aren't strong enough, or are too strong. I worry that I'm not strong enough to overcome this. I worry that my relationships aren't strong enough to handle this, or if it gets worse that they will truly fall apart. I worry that I cling too much and simultaneously that I push people away too much. I have trouble with that little thing called a "middle ground" where things are good and balanced.
Just now I re-read what I'd written and now I worry that I worry too much. :-P AARRRGGGGHHHHH!!