It's crunch time. A decision must be made. I'm damned sick of this.

I am really really sick of this self-torture over "what if"... especially because I know intellectually the wild scenarios I have been torturing myself with for 6-7 weeks are just that, wild, far fetched scenarios that aren't going to happen. In fact, I don't see any reason why I can't come out the other side of this entire experience in a lot better shape mentally and physically than I went going in. And to me, that would mean being a winner in life, not in some Charlie Sheen way, but in a meaningful way, that I can have the things in life I want if I just go after them.

Yesterday was a really weird day for me in a constant string of weird days. As I said in the other post, I found everything either hilarious or freakin' awesome due to the stepped-up dose on the lamictal. But I still had all of these gnawing fears and spent most of the day either stewing over them or kind of torturing my poor mother with snide remarks or direct complaints about the way my family has dealt with this, the behind my back gossip about my "state of mental health". And I spent a lot of time thinking about everything the various mental health professionals I dealt with have told me. And from the psychiatrist to the hospital staff to my own therapist, they are all telling me the exact same thing, that I will be fine medically/psychologically once the lamictal gets to its therapeutic dose, that this is a relatively minor anomaly in my life. But more importantly, they have all told me there is no reason to fear that I will lose everything in life as long as I don't choose to go down that road. I discussed my hospital experience on Friday with the psychiatrist, and told her about the people I had encountered who had been repeatedly hospitalized with multiple suicide attempts, and her analysis of that situation was the same as my therapist's, that some of them get into the mindset where it is just easier for them to be that way than to try to function. And I never want to be like that. But my current psychological path has been leading me to some dark thoughts, and that is what will destroy me if anything does. Like the song says, "I am my own worst enemy ... know your enemy".

I spent an especially large amount of time thinking over and over about what happened with D***, who is the MSW group therapist at the hospital, both on that Friday when he was tough on me, and his last comment he made to me when I was leaving, which started with him asking me a question, "What is different now?" I didn't quite know what to say, so he told me, "what is different now is your attitude, and attitude will be what makes or breaks you." And he is completely right. That and the other line, "You're pissed as Hell, you have every right to be, and you want to tell the world to fuck off" will be the two things I will never forget out of my time with him.

I'm still scared, I would by lying if I said anything less. So scared I could sit here and cry right now if I just allowed myself to. But I won't, because I am not going to give into this thing. I have thought extensively about the good things in my life that I do have. Both the material, the intangible, and the existential. I know I have it in me to succeed, as long as I don't let life tear me down to the point of self-loathing and self-defeat. And I really, really want to succeed. As I said in my other post, I DO like my middle class suburban lifestyle. I have it better than probably 95% of the humans who have ever lived on this planet. I don't want to sound too materialistic, but frankly I guess I am, I enjoy the "stuff" in my life and I don't want to lose that. And if I do lose it all, it's going to be my own fault more than it will be the fault of the monster known as stigma. Because I can fight that, it's fighting the demons of my own soul that will be the epic battle that makes or breaks this soldier. It's war, and I can't ever forget that. War isn't pretty, but at times it is necessary and unavoidable, and this is one of those times.

I have received a tremendous amount of support from the DU community, both publically and privately, and it has made such a difference to me to know that there are good people out there who do care about each other, even if that means being kind to a total stranger on an internet discussion forum. So to all of you, I say thank you from the bottom of my heart. But I also have a request, and that is this, if I slip back to the "woe is me, this thing will destroy me" frame of mind, please kick my ass twelve ways to Sunday about it. Because that is what I need, more than anything, the drill sergeant who kicks my ass because it's the right thing to do to motivate me to help myself. So please, please don't indulge my paranoia and fear any more. Just be brutally honest and tell me like it is, that I'm being an ass and I better get over myself.

It's a new day, the first day of a new week. In a few hours, I have my first appointment with the personal trainer who is going to kick my ass for the next three months. I've got enough time now to go out and ride, even though I said I wasn't going to this morning. Funny story, I'm up posting this now in the early hours of the morning, because I forgot to take seroquel last night, set it out on the nightstand next to me, and it's still there because I fell asleep before I took it. When I woke up and put the dog out a little while ago, I said to myself, hey, the seroquel isn't working as well as it did. When I came back to bed to write this, I noticed the pill sitting there next to my watch, and had a good laugh about that one, it was both funny and awesome that I thought I'd taken it. Funny and awesome is so much better than weepy and morose, even if it is just the step up in my lamictal and won't last. I've had pretty much a lifetime of weepy and morose in a couple of month's time, and its not attractive. And it damned sure hurts. It's time to say enough is enough.

So, I've reached a few decisions. The first is that I am not telling anyone else in my family about my diagnosis, about the hospital, about any of it. Because it's none of their damned business in the first place. The second is that I'm not telling anyone else, either. For the same reason, it's no one's business but mine. If they don't know, they can't judge me on an artificial standard based on their own prejudices and misbeliefs about mental illness. And I'm not going to spend my life looking over my shoulder waiting for someone to find out. Life is too short for that. The third decision is that I'm going to live my life and try to make every day my best. You know, yesterday I took my gym clothes from Friday mornings workout session out of the laundry bag in my car and threw them in the wash. I should have done it Friday night, they were disgusting, absolutely drenched in my own sweat, and the only reason they didn't smell like a dead dog was because it has been quite cold here, barely got into the mid 40's yesterday, so they were essentially refrigerated. And when I looked at how drenched they were, I was damned proud of that, because I faced a challenge and a new situation that was frightening, and I not only survived it, I made it my own. And that is how it should be. Winners win, no matter how hard it is. And I want to be a winner. Because I'm damned sick of making myself feel like a loser. I'm better than that, bipolar or no bipolar.