Façade

I have a number of things wrong with me. People seem to misunderstand me when I discuss such things, too. Apparently, it's believed that because I 'categorise' myself in one way or another, I define my whole being by the definition of that category. This is so terribly far from the truth. The human brain breaks things down to understand them by using categories and 'labels.' If I say, "I'm bipolar," I'm not saying, "Hi, my name is manic-depressive and my likes include dopamine rushes, increased energy, and feelings of euphoria. My dislikes include depression, lack of energy, and decreased interest in the things I like." When I say I'm bipolar, I'm giving an explanation of some of my behaviors and moods. I'm not always 'acting bipolar,' either. People who know me can say that I can be 'normal' and stable.

When I notice something irregular in myself (and remember that 'regular' and 'irregular' are relative terms to those around us), I search for an answer. I've seen so many people say that, when they first got a diagnosis for this illness or that, they say they went, "I knew there was something wrong, but at least now I can put a name to it." If social stigmata happen to accompany that diagnosis, that is the problem of those who let those stigmata cloud their vision. And I would rather have that diagnosis and have a chance for the right treatment, than to lack the diagnosis and have little to no chance of getting the right treatment.

I hate social events. I feel nothing good can come out of it for me. However, I'm usually at those events for someone else, and so I often try to brave through them. Two things came up that brought my morale from average to horrible: "Have you graduated this year?" and "You don't want to be diagnosed with BPD." I had brought a Tramadol in case of a flare up but... I admittedly had to take it just to get through the rest of my grandpa's birthday party. It's not like I could leave, anyway. Sadly, that Tramadol didn't kick in until the end of the party, and fully kicked in when we got home. Either way, even afterwards those conversations lingered in my head, looming over me like some sort of terrible monster.

I suppose I got a hint of the social stigmata I might get from a diagnosis of BPD, but it's not like I've been free of social stigmata before. As bipolar, I've had a great deal of stigma, and my OCD and anxieties are usually shrugged off and made fun of as if some sorts of silly, stupid behaviors that I could just suddenly stop without any effort. To say it pisses me off would be a horrible, horrible understatement. No, rather... it makes me want to shove my fist into the person's face. But I hide these things as anyone with a mental disorder learns to do over the years. I show certain emotions and, by an annoying habit, hide the emotions that would make my case more. When I'm depressed, I say, "I'm fine," and smile, and when I'm anxious I just try to come up with some bogus excuse to avoid the anxiety-producing thing or just shrivel up and get quiet. But I'm still alive, aren't I? And I still have my share of good days. If I'm searching for a diagnosis to explain otherwise unexplained issues, that's my business. Showing concern is fine, but adamantly trying to keep me from doing so isn't.

But now I will lull into my flurry of opiates in my system, try to forget what had just previously transpired, and maybe go for a walk later tonight.