The Anxious Bipolar

I suppose the laws of probability dictate that I should be a member of this statistic, but I'm still cranky about it. According to an article in the American Journal of Psychiatry, more than half of bipolar people also have anxiety disorders. When both disorders are present, it typically indicates a younger age of onset and a diminished hope for a functional life. Ugh.

My foray into learning that I was bipolar actually started with a gastroenterologist because I was so keyed up all the time, my stomach was slowly dissolving itself with acid. Yummy. A couple months and several panic attacks and trips to the ER later, I finally figured out that my body wasn't actually dying, my mind was merely FREAKING out. That's unsettling. I mean, we're supposed to be able to trust our minds and our perceptions. When they become warped, the world becomes a very unpredictable and frightening place. Or a very sensual and welcoming place. Or just a freakin place, like any other damn place.

The holidays are making me slightly irritated. Well actually, everything is making me irritated, but the holidays are like the straw that broke the camel's back. I can't help but thinking that we're all ants. We run into our consumerist temples and grab a shirt and some lotion to let a loved one know that we care. Does that seem messed up? I mean, aren't there other ways of sharing the love? Do we have to participate in this capitalist orgy?

Of course, I love getting presents. I love giving them too.

I suppose a Starbucks latte makes the bitter pill a little more palatable.

Or not.

Ramblerambleramble.

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