Show me

I have a little (very very very little) sympathy for my colleague's dilemma.

It is partly my fault. When I hit kindergarten I learned to shut up about what I was thinking. I was very careful. I navigated the social halls by being silent. Listening and watching. Expressing what I was thinking was not at all popular. Some teachers didn't like it either: my sixth grade one in particular.

So the problem, I think, is not that I become manic when I'm sick. Actually this has been scary as shit and I genuinely went to the ER for help twice. I fucking give up on that. I try not to believe that they'd be happier with me dead, but it sure feels like it.

Anyhow, the problem is that I am used to hiding my processing speed. Spreading it out. Rotary, chorus, boats, knitting, work, whatever. All of the above. Flute. Church. The Unitarian Book Group.

When I get really sick and ask for help, I can't hide my processing. Then they label me psychotic and manic.

I hate being bullied. But I guess it's time, been a long time coming. They've said “Bring it on.

Show me, indeed.

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