On asking for help.

July 17, 2019

I took a big, scary leap towards being in control of my cyclic mood variability this week, something I’ve been putting off for a long time as I’ve struggled to admit that what I’ve been fighting alone is out of the ordinary.

I’ve always been a fiercely independent person, to the point that I consider that strength as a fibre of my identity. My vocal inner critic constantly sneaks up to mock me for not being able to solve this on my own. When I’m elevated, it’s too easy to convince myself that I don’t have a problem, or that the pain I feel is caused by the weather, or my hormones, or not exercising enough, or my diet, or work, or or or. The double edge is that these manic lies arrive precisely when I need to harness my energy to find that help and build a safety net before I slip down again. The rollercoaster is exhausting.

Stigma is rooted in the inherent subjectivity of our lived experiences, and is reinforced by the invisibility of neurological suffering. Objectively, though, we are stronger when we face our demons with help.