Blind Ride

Up. Down. Up. Down.

As a child, would you be dared to do it? To be strapped into a cold, unfeeling contraption and be taken on a wild ride. Up…up…up…then down! Down, down, down the steep drop only to be dragged back up. There would be a loop just to make it interesting, but you had seen the whole track before you’d gotten on. You knew it would stop, and you could brag to your friends that you were no chicken! That you had dared to ride!

Can you see it? Can you see the rollercoaster of your childhood? Yes? Now, do me a favor. Before you even get to the park, close your eyes. They’re glued shut now. There’s a coaster there that you’ll be on for the rest of your life, but it will constantly change, and there’s no peeking!

You don’t remember when it started, when you were guided into the seat to be strapped down. The click of the restraint is so soft you don’t recognize that it’s locked in forever. You don’t realize at first that it won’t go away, not even if you scream or get sick of the ride. Because you no doubt will. You will want off eventually, but there’s no way to get off.

That is the world of my bipolar disorder.

My particular brand of bipolar disorder is fast and intense. Up. Down. Up. Down. Throw in a loop to keep her guessing. And that’s within the space of a few hours. Most people get ups and downs that last for weeks to months. Mine can last less than an hour before I’m thrown in a new direction.

I’ve seen that some people don’t believe in what I have. They don’t believe that bipolar can be that fast, that it’s only a part of my personality and not a chemical imbalance. It’s impossible for bipolar disorder to be like that. My response? Meet me.

I go up and down, with the added bonus of social anxiety and other delightful surprises from Apsperger’s autism, a very high-functioning form of the condition that is no longer recognized as separate from high-functioning autism.

I am very open about my bipolar. I am very open about my Asperger’s. I see no reason not to be. It’s disconcerting to actually be the one on the ride. The observers need at least a little warning of why I get very quiet then start shouting random songs, why I stubbornly try to talk about one subject, whatever my current Aspie interest is.

I still can’t tell how high I will go up, how low I’ll go down, how long it will last, or even which one is next. I’m sure that on this side of heaven, it won’t go away completely. But, I can hope it’ll get better. Just live one day at a time. That’s all I can do.

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