300mg Quetiapine (The withdrawal has ceased. There is no timeline to begin again).
Bipolar and me; we’ve been together for a while. At least 13 years by my count, maybe longer but no shorter. We’re friends really. We’ve spent a lot of time together over the years, been through a lot. There have been good times, and there have been bad times, and there have been plenty of them. Bipolar is quieter now. But every now and then it stops in to say hello. It’s a relationship. A bond. It’s not a battle anymore. It’s just me and Bipolar. We’re together, and I’m okay with that.
I didn’t always think this way. There was a time when I thought Bipolar was the worst thing in the world. Where it seemed completely unmanageable, and insurmountable. Where it seemed as though the suffering would never end. But it did, as it always does, and I bounce back to being me. It’s our pattern. It’s our thing, and I’m okay with that.
But close friendships like this, they best work in pairs. That’s what I think. There’s no room for intruders. We don’t want to share our space, our secrets, our lives with anyone else. It’s me and bipolar, and no one else. I learnt to be okay with that.
Except, now we have Arthritis at our door, and it won’t leave us alone. Like an unwanted visitor, it showed up one day when we least expected it and refuses to leave because it knows that we’re inside. It saw me turn the lights off when it pulled up in the drive. I’ve got the door firmly shut but it’s sitting out there, waiting for us to let it in.
Knock, knock, knock.
But, bipolar and me, we won’t answer. We’re not in. No one is here. We don’t need anymore friends.
Except, this is not how things work in reality. I’d like to say it is, but it isn’t. There is no door, and if there was, arthritis would have broken it down long ago and I’d be lying on the couch in an illness sandwich. Mental on one side, physical on another, and me in the middle. They’d think it was a game, fun even but it wouldn’t be. No one likes to get squished.
The truth is, no matter how hard I want to close that door and pretend that arthritis isn’t out there. It is. And it’s not really out there at all. It’s in me. It’s in my house. It’s made itself at home.
Threesomes have never been my thing. But at some point, I’m going to have be okay with it.