Last week’s self diagnosis of bipolar type II might have been premature, I don’t know. Crazy bastard that I am, I’m desperate to put a name on this beast. I went to the psychiatrist last Friday and thought I sensed her cringe mentally when I told her what I thought it was. “Bipolar II is hard to diagnose,” is all she said and handed me a prescription for Fluoxetine.
I bet every maniac under the sun goes to their psychiatrist with one pet theory or another. Psychiatrists probably get together for drinks after work and regale each other with each day’s allotment of hilarious self-assessments. Damn those internet depression quizzes. Damn those self-help books. Damn this subjective, untrustworthy mind of mine.
Upon further investigation, I may have atypical depression.
“Still self-diagnosing after all that?” you ask.
Yes. Yes, I am. What was that Albert Einstein said about insanity?
“Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
Are you surprised that I continue to self-diagnose? Haven’t you been paying attention?
I have to admit that I don’t care for the atypical depression diagnosis if that’s what it is. In spite of it’s name, atypical depression is the most common kind. I’ve wrestled with mediocrity my whole life. Everything about me is average. Mediocre. Now you’re telling me I can’t even be spectacularly crazy? Not that I want to be spectacularly crazy, but at least I’d have something to talk about… or babble about. At least it would give people a reason to pay attention, even if it’s with 911 on speed dial. If I tell someone “I’m atypically depressed,” they’ll probably say, “Aren’t we all? Your real problem is that you won’t stop bitching about it. Suck it up, wussy.”
All I know is that most days, I feel nuttier than a squirrel in a pecan tree. My mind is a rich tapestry of dysfunction. I’d like to know what’s wrong. At times, I don’t think anything is wrong, but I have assurances from friends and loved ones that something is wrong. I have assurances.
So why the need to put a label on this thing? What difference does it make? I guess I’m looking for validation. I’d like to know that while I am in fact crazy, I haven’t been crazy all this time to think that I’m crazy.
Now that I think about it, I probably shouldn’t throw the word ‘crazy’ around. In spite of how I feel, being depressed does not equal being crazy. Is crazy even a real thing these days? Depression is more like… like atypical sanity.
Hmmm…. Atypical sanity. Yeah. I like that.