My brain was working so much faster than I had ever experienced it. I thought that maybe I had brain cancer. I thought my brain was trying to get as much thinking done as possible before it died. I didn’t want to go see a doctor because I was afraid of what I might find out and also because I didn’t believe my own story.
So things got worse and worse, only I didn’t know they were getting worse. I thought I was acting strange because I wasn’t happy. I didn’t want to look at the way I was behaving. The idea that I was mentally ill was too much to think about, so I didn’t think about it. I asked my doctor about it during my annual physical, but he didn’t make any big deal. He gave me a referral and said I could go if I wanted to. No urgency.
Later I asked him why he had no urgency and he said because other patients reacted badly when he suggested they might need a psychiatrist. He thought that a laid back approach would be more effective. I wish he had told me it was important because I thought that it was kind of an iffy thing with me. Not a big deal.
Eventually, I started acting so weird that my wife was afraid for my health (my life?) and she made me see a shrink, and I was diagnosed and my life was saved. I think that in part, it all happened so gradually, and the symptoms were so all over the place and I didn’t know enough to connect them: not needing sleep, eating less, highly sexual, brain racing, erratic moods, irritability, highs and lows, obsessions.
If you read a description, it’s all there. But if you don’t know, you don’t know, and it doesn’t make any kind of complete picture.
I think illnesses are very difficult that way. You never know when it’s enough to go visit the doctor. And it grows slowly, so you tell yourself you are overreacting. Then, all of a sudden, one day you crash and it’s obvious and you just hope you don’t get care too late. Scary.
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