A lot of people with bipolar (and all kinds of mental illnesses) drink. I mean a lot, and they drink a lot. There is a sweet spot between “I shouldn’t be doing this” and “This is when the bad decisions start,” a sweet forgetfulness, a freedom from the absolute fucking grind that is living with bipolar.
So yeah, I drank. And once I was diagnosed and medicated? I
drank then too. Did I know that alcohol and psychotropic medications were a bad mix? Yes I did.
And then my psychiatrist said if I didn’t stop we were "going to
have a problem.” Said it just like that, like a mob boss.
He didn’t define “problem,” so I was free to fill in the
blank: maybe he’ll stop prescribing my meds, maybe he’ll stop treating me
altogether. Maybe I’ll end up back at square one. Oh fuck.
So now I drink maybe half a beer maybe once every other
month. I don’t miss the bad decisions. I don’t miss wrecking the all-important sleep schedule. I don’t miss getting sick and
dangling one foot out of the bed to keep the room from spinning. And I don’t miss
the hangovers.
But I sure do miss those moments of freedom.
Comments
Post a Comment