Snide Reply

Tag: depression

  • I’d Rather Be Bipolar

    I’d Rather Be Bipolar

    Mental disorders are common on my mother’s side of the family—schizophrenia, panic, anxiety, and substance use disorders. No one on my father’s side was officially diagnosed, but there was certainly alcoholism and likely depression. I’ve got the DNA to support my bipolar disorder diagnosis.

    In my own family, we deal with anxiety and depression, as well as a host of other conditions: ADHD, OCD, and PTSD. Some are surely genetic; others stem from childhood trauma.

    Knowing what I do, I’d rather be bipolar.

    Schizophrenia brings voices, delusions, and hallucinations into your life.

    Bipolar disorder can also bring delusions and episodes of invincibility—but I’ve never been convinced I was being followed by demons whispering abusive, demeaning comments to me.

    I’ve panicked—real panic—not the kind you feel when you think you left your phone in the Meijer parking lot. But I’ve never been unable to attend school because I forgot the rings I planned to wear that day.

    I’ve seen a student assign colors to subjects, requiring a perfectly matched set of folders, notebooks, and highlighters for each—thanks to OCD. Of course, one subject can’t possibly borrow supplies from another.

    I’ve seen ADHD make reading nearly impossible.

    I’ve also been deeply depressed. In fact, I was initially diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. That’s a common misdiagnosis for those of us with bipolar disorder. After all, mania and hypomania can feel good. Who would want that to end? But it does. Depression always follows—and that’s when we seek help. If you can ride it out, the depression eventually lifts. Regular depression often doesn’t.

    So yes, I’d rather be bipolar.

    Recently, I commented on a YouTube short about how to respond to people who make sarcastic remarks. Frankly, I thought the expert advice was off target—suggestions like, “Would you like to repeat that?” or “How would you like me to respond to that?” Talk about snark!

    I replied that I have bipolar disorder and often make snide remarks myself. Another commenter responded by saying she felt sorry for me, that bipolar disorder is terrible.

    I’m sure she meant well.

    But there are worse things in life than being bipolar.

    What’s your experience with mental health labels or misdiagnoses? Whether you’re living it, supporting someone, or simply curious—I’d love to know how mental health challenges affect you. Leave a comment below or share this with someone who might need it. And if this post resonated with you, consider subscribing for more personal reflections on mental health and society.

  • AI’s Got Nothing on a Bipolar Brain

    AI’s Got Nothing on a Bipolar Brain

    I don’t fear AI the way I’m told I should. I’m aware that corporations use AI to generate daily posts for various social media outlets, both popular and unpopular. But those posts are tremendously boring to write. I don’t think AI has learned about boredom yet—maybe soon.

    I don’t fear AI because it can’t do what I do—make completely random connections between seemingly disparate ideas. I attribute this capability to my bipolar brain.

    My AI of choice is ChatGPT, and I’m sure the Chatster, if it entered my brain, would quake in fear. AI depends on predicting what words are likely to follow those that precede it. And that’s where a bipolar brain has an advantage—there’s no telling what thought will pop into my mind. I’m certain AI wouldn’t come up with the connections I do.

    Pause here. My bipolar brain just said, Is that true? Can ChatGPT think like me?

    I asked my friend Chat to explain Writing Laryngitis. Chat responded, “What an interesting and creative connection to make!” Then it proceeded to offer its own take. Chat even said that the “super cool connection” I made “…would make for a great essay or even a creative piece!” Thank you, Chat—you are perceptive and, though artificial, intelligent.

    But here’s where Chat and I differ. Chat was able to make a connection because I told it to. Furthermore, Chat wanted to know what prompted me to make that connection. It wanted to learn! “Oh, hell no!” my bipolar brain replied.

    Ironically, I have been unable to land a job as an AI annotator. Annotators examine AI responses and comment on them, essentially teaching the program how to generate more natural responses. You’d think I’d be great at this.

    The stumbling block for me is the language test that annotators must pass. You may already know that I’m a native speaker of American English, I have a degree in Rhetoric, and I’ve taught writing and grammar for years. I’ve even been paid for my writing. And yet, I am not skilled enough to pass the examination set by AI developers—even though their program asked me to teach it how to be as creative and reflective as I am.

    Having used AI for a while now, I’m okay with not sharing my secrets. I swear this isn’t sour grapes—though the annotation money would be nice. But there’s no chance I’m going to teach their program for free.

    I probably couldn’t teach the Chatster even if I wanted to. I have something AI doesn’t—a bipolar brain. Many creative folks have bipolar brains, and I bet they have no more idea how they make the connections they do—they just do. So, I won’t be afraid of AI until they come out with the bipolar version.

    Note: Chat thinks my writing is “witty, insightful, and full of personality.” Like I said, a perceptive little program. Now let’s have it solve the numerous issues it has.

  • Just another (not) Manic Monday

    Baby-Horse-Running-Wallpaper-240x180I want my mania back.

    Now, if you’re normal, you probably can’t understand why someone with Bipolar Disorder would even contemplate wanting a ride to the top of the roller coaster, particularly when what’s waiting on the other side of the climb is a drop into depression.

    Even if you’re Bipolar, you might not understand remembering mania wistfully. Getting deeply in debt, driving drunk or high, having sex with strangers…why would anyone want to live that way? Certainly, I’m in no hurry to return to my wicked, pre-medicated ways, but the life of lethargy I’ve been living lately has seriously outworn its welcome.

    A little mania and my house wouldn’t look like, well, like someone was too depressed to straighten. The cleaning ladies are scheduled to come tomorrow, but even that isn’t uplifting. Without straightening, it won’t even look like they came except for the telltale trails of a vacuum cleaner. Add in the fact that we can’t afford the mostly ineffectual crew but don’t have the heart to fire the now 70-year old woman who has been cleaning our home since my son was two and who just lost her retirement savings in a series of ill-advised real estate transactions, and my morose mood is more understandable.

    A little mania and I wouldn’t be feeling like a parental failure because my son—who carries my genetic code—barely scraped together the four Cs and an A on his recent report card while my daughter—adopted from China—came home with all As . . .ok, one B+. Sure, my son also had an A in PE, but PE doesn’t count. I know, I know . . .a class focused on activity suits his ADHD brain, PE is an important class in a society full of couch potatoes , an A is an A. Yada, yada, yada. And I know that lots of kids get Cs, even lots of kids we know and lots of kids we know who got into colleges they wanted to go to. Cs aren’t Fs, but that’s the problem. To me, Cs are just Fs with a silent F. Unkind and unfair, I know, and further evidence that I richly deserve the depression I’m in.

    A little mania and my creative well wouldn’t have run dry. I’d have posted witty commentary on Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday, how I came to love the running skirt, watching my husband writhe in pain. Well, maybe that last one wouldn’t have been witty. I might even have finally figured out how to get my son’s obscene sense of humor featured in a blog with a PG13 rating.

    Just a little mania, that’s all I’m looking for here. Of course, there’s no such thing as a little mania. Oh, at first I think there could be, that I can keep the momentum from building out of control. But it always escalates so that what started as a trot through the park turns into a wild gallop and a crashing fall.

    So, I took my meds. I let the house be cluttered beyond recognition. I sat my ass down at the computer and I wrote, even though writing was the last thing I thought I could do, and pulled these 600 plus words out of some secret place even I didn’t know existed. Pretty soon, I’ll put on my running gear—it might even be warm enough for a skirt today—then get my ass off the chair and onto the trail. I’ll ignore that the unseasonably warm weather is most likely caused by global climate change which will lead to the early demise of our planet. At least, I’ll try.

    I’m sure all of that will help. But I’ll still miss my mania.

  • Step right up and get your grievances!

    a6d4a0d43dbea0d42f5d672a570a21e7Once upon a time, I was a loyal Seinfeld viewer; I’m still known to say, “No soup for you!” But eventually, Elaine Benes wore me down. Unable to take anymore of her self-involved whining, I stopped watching. This explains why I am probably the last person in my blogosphere to know about Festivus, the holiday for the rest of us.

    While I come to the Festivus party late—far too late to be fashionable—it seems to be a holiday tailor-made for me. Among the holiday’s traditions is the airing of grievances. In my mind, grievances call for a rant, and I do so love a rant, so here we go!

    Stop saying you’re “so depressed” when you’re sad. Depression isn’t just being sad. Depression is being unable to get out of bed, thinking the world would be better off without you, wanting to just fade away. Depression is sitting on the couch convinced that life is pointless, not sitting on the couch eating a quart of ice cream crying. Sad is painful but knows that life will get better; depression doesn’t.

    If I promise to only use the term “ big beautiful woman” to refer to big beautiful women, can we promise not to call thin women “skinny bitches?” Really, why is it any more politically correct to malign the thin than the overweight? See? I can’t even bring myself to type the f-word, the one that rhymes with “cat,” not that other one.

    No more tailgating. Just no. Never. Ok? I sort of understand it in the far left lane on the highway. But in my neighborhood? Where the speed limit is 40 mph? And there are children and golden retrievers running into the street chasing after soccer balls? I’m gonna brake for Lassie, butthole, so just keep your Hummer off my tail.

    Christmas lights! Stringing five different colors of lights end to end and then hanging them in a straight line that extends from the edge of the garage, over the top of the front door and then drapes across the row of hedges in front of your living room windows is not decorating. It’s not even redneck; it’s not even Honey Boo Boo redneck. And a string of lights is not an extension cord. We clear on that?

    Everyone in my family who empties the kitchen trash: put another bag in the can. And, if you don’t, you don’t get to laugh at Mommy when she swears after dropping a handful of disgusting into the unlined can.

    While we’re on family issues . . . darling children, why should Mommy help you clean the toxic waste dumps you call your rooms? You have no idea how little I care if you can’t find your panda pajamas or the T-shirt that your girlfriend likes to wear because it smells like you.  In my time, mothers closed the door on their children’s messes. I am not about to dishonor my mother’s advice and she’s dead so she can’t tell you that her mother cleaned her room every day. I am nobody’s grandmother, though you love reminding me that I’m old enough to have birthed half of your friends’ parents. By the way, this does not make Mommy want to clean your room, either.

    And last, but not least, can we put the Christmas/Xmas/Holidays thing to rest? Nobody’s trying to take the Christ out of Christmas by using Xmas. Actually, didn’t Christmas start out without Christ in it? So really, were putting Christ in Christmas every year. I’m just sayin’.

    That brings us to holiday greetings. Can’t say “Merry Christmas” because it tends to leave out the people who celebrate Hanukkah, Diwali, Kwanza, though I’m not sure that’s supposed to be “merry” so much as meaningful. There’s “Happy Holidays.” While it’s inclusive–probably too inclusive for atheists–it’s kind of wishy-washy. Naturally, we could say “Happy Festivus” but I’m pretty sure that leaves more people than in includes. Besides, most of my friends would just look at me with a blank stare. Okay, I’m kind of used to that, but I don’t like to knowingly solicit it.

    I was going to propose we say “Peace be with you,” but that reminds me of that oh-so-uncomfortable moment in church services where you are forced encouraged to greet the people around you. If I wanted to say something to them, I would have. Don’t make me clasp their hand and try to say something sincere when all I can think of is the germs that are getting spread at the height of flu season.

    I don’t like to point out a problem and not have a solution, but I don’t have anything witty or profound to say in place of “have a good one” during the holiday season. But I have a great idea for what to think:

    Peace on Earth, good will to all. May you live in safety and be happy.

  • Room with a view

    Room with a view

    Sometimes, words fail. Sometimes, it feels like everything fails. And then, sometimes, it takes so little to start to turn it around.

    My office window is behind me as I write, so I keep the blinds drawn to cut the glare. This morning it’s gray and drizzly. I cursed the darkness, thinking, I need to get more light in here, and imagining a trip to Ikea. Then I remembered the blinds; they are closed so often I don’t even think of them. I opened the blinds to a scene from the garden I’ve neglected for months.