The Beginning

"I need a lover that won't drive me crazy.
I need a lover that won't drive me mad."

Indeed Pat Benetar. Indeed.

My husband is Bipolar. Not the depressive, danger-to-himself kind of Bipolar. But the manic, impulsive, spend all your money, and don't make any sudden moves kind of Bipolar. I always knew he was "off" but we married young and it wasn't until he hit his early twenties that I realized how "off" things really were.

Still, like many young and naive girls, (read: stupid) I thought I could fix him. You know, love him enough, show him the light and all will be better. Like being Bipolar is a lifestyle choice instead of a chemical imbalance. We recently "celebrated" our six year wedding anniversary and I now know that there is no "fixing" a Bipolar. All you can do is pray that the next cycle isn't as painful and violent as the last.

So this is MY new therapy. Lord knows he has plenty of his own. Not that they do much good, but I digress. You can't tell the truth of living with a Bipolar to anyone who hasn't lived with a Bipolar. No one else gets it. They tell you to leave, they call you a Masochist (which I most likely am,) or they roll their eyes at The Girl With All The Drama.

This is my new venting ground. My confessions. My triumphs. My pain. The sorts of things you can't really share with Aunt Janice and your Cousin Julie on Facebook. Trust me, I've tried.

Maybe, just maybe, this release will keep me out of an institution. Because if there's one thing I've come to understand; crazy is infectious. And I'm surrounded by it.