I don’t know what kind of “heroic measures” were employed when I died on St. Patrick’s day 2003, but I am thankful for whomever and whatever happened to me in that recovery room, to preserve my life. That day marked two milestones for me.
- The cancerous tumor was removed from my body
- I was given my life back
It is like a virus was removed and then I was rebooted. It doesn’t seem as though it was a clean reboot. There was something left lurking. Some insidious piece of software called Bipolar Disorder was left behind. Maybe it was brought closer to the surface (I think I’ve had BPD for longer than that). I wonder what the outcome would have been if I hadn’t needed to be resuscitated, if I hadn’t flat-lined. If there hadn’t been any reason to bring me back, would the rest of my life still have turned out like it did.
I know I am probably belaboring a point here. I can’t help but to do it. I accept my diagnosis and the fact that it is a disease and that I jut drew the short straw. I accept that there is no cure for it and that my best bet for leading a “normal” life is to take my prescribed medications, meet regularly with my doctors and therapist, and keep up my support system.
I just can’t help but wonder what, if anything caused BPD to present itself. It comes from a desire to know everything there is to know about it. It’s in me, more, it is a part of me and the way I’m built, there is a desire to investigate everything about me. That may be considered a flaw, maybe an idiosyncrasy that causes me to ask why. If so, I’m sorry, but it is not going to stop any time soon.