It means my craziness has a label now and is confirmed; no more wondering if I am or am not, nuts.
It means for the rest of my life I will be on the insanity see-saw of mania versus depression.
It means that I need to straighten this doctor out immediately; his question to me rings with a patronizing tone that tells me he is confusing mental illness with retardation, and he should know better.
It means I will be looking for a new shrink, one not so renowned likely, but a lot less condescending, forthwith.
It means I am ripe to become a Bipolar Clinic guinea-pig for trial testing of new drugs, especially since I’ve already been on almost every antidepressant available.
It means I get to tell my children that I have a mental illness with genetic components that bears no markers. In other words, my kids will have a proclivity to develop bipolar disorder but cannot be tested to show whether there are indicators they’re going to get it, or pass it on to their children.
It means I need to choose how to live with this news that has left me feeling even more indecisive than usual, that’s what it means.