The truth

Ever since forever I have always been obsessed with the truth.

The truth about me (“who am I, really?”), the truth about what I felt and thought (“please, god, just let me know what I really feel and think about this or that”), the truth about my behaviour (“why do I do that? Why!?”) and the truth of other people’s feelings for me and mine for them.

I also wanted to know the truth about where I stood as regards society (Am I an anarchist, a liberal, a lefty, a conservative???) and personal wishes (I want to live in a commune/no I want to live in a luxury house/I want a cottage/I want a farm/I want a hut on the mountains) so that I could finally work towards them! To give me the idea I had some sort of control over my life.

The truth is, I have no control over my life. I never did. I was always reacting to stuff that happened to me, or that my outbursts in reaction to something would cause to happen. Sometimes big (up and leave), sometimes small (send countless CVs as a personal assistant for a week, and deep down believe that’s my calling, too!).

It now starts to feel like it was all a lie. A lie to myself. A well-meaning lie to others.

Every and all opinions expressed at any point, at any time, to any one, all a lie. Oh they were absolutely true when I expressed them, but test me and most of the time I won’t even remember why or when I said what I said.

And that’s not counting the times someone would tell me of something quite big and meaningful that I did, sometimes for quite some time, and I have absolutely no memory of it. If they describe it for long enough, a distant flicker of a light turns on and I slowly say “oohhhhh yeeeaahhhhh I remember!”, and sometimes it’s true, and sometimes it’s such a vague memory that I can hardly believe it was me, and yet that something made such an impression on that person, it may even have defined me in his or her memory… and I had no memory of it. Usually, fortunately, it is a good memory they have. Usually the bad stuff I never shared with anybody or I did all by myself, with people nobody will ever meet. So I smile and think wow, it’s cool that you remember that about me. (I wish I did too).

I got into a self-righteous frenzy last night. Well maybe it wasn’t that bad, but my husband got upset because I was raising my voice and interrupting him, my son struggled to keep me level and reasonable. We managed, and in the end, I couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was in particular that my husband had said that upset me so. We were talking about education, and homework, something stupid. It may have been his comment (the last I remember) about how people who had difficulty at school should just accept school is a part of life and “suck it up”. Maybe it was that hated expression that set me off. I don’t know. But the point was, I want to be an advocate for abolishing stigmas about mental health? How. Hah. I can’t even remember what I get delirious and angry and riled up about. I have no constancy, no common thread inside my head. I can’t make any decision about anything I want to do that will stick more than two hours, two days, a few months if lucky. And to see that face, the face everyone has always made, when I got out of control and ranted and they wondered how to calm me down, and they got exasperated because they couldn’t explain, and they were right and I was just irrational..

I don’t want to see those faces anymore. I don’t want to fight. From this neutral point of view I can see when I’m talking reasonably and when I’m not. But when I’m in it, the unreasonable rant, I don’t. I’m not being unreasonable as far as I feel in that moment. I feel righteous.

So I think well, the dreaded psych. eval. with arrive, and they will diagnose me, and then at least I’ll know what terms to use. I can say, hey, other people with (insert diagnosis here), this has worked for me, wanna try it?

But the truth … the truth is I think the only way I went through all the stuff I did and had done to me is by forgetting about it. My brain kept getting too distracted to focus on all the things at once, so I’d just move on, and keep on going, and rely on my manias or hypomanias (I think I like calling them hippomanias) to make me feel proud, health, strong, with some ideas of my own.


I am dreading to see what will happen to me when that Tower crumbles in all its chaos, revealing its ugly truths not in snippets that I deliberately avoid here and there, but in all its majestic lumpness. A small part of me hopes it will be too much and I will just go catatonic and farewell to all. A part of me says don’t worry, you’ll always be who you are, you’ll be fine, you’ll just have more tools to battle your stuff when it gets out of control. A small part of me still says all this is bullshit, forget everything that happened it was never that bad you’re making it so much worse than it is, you’re FINE and as soon as the little one is grown up you can go back to apply for jobs as Mr Big Guy or Ms Cool Lady’s PA. A part of me, as always, just waits for everything to reveal itself to be a stupid dream, where the nightmare is everything is dandy around you and YOU are the nightmare.

The truth is now outsiders are involved. Something I have avoided all my life. Outsiders that will either help me, or condemn me. They will either dismiss me or diagnose me and then it will all be real.

And the truth is, every day, I can’t think of anything else.



6 thoughts on “The truth

  1. Last year was the year I came undone. I remember it clearly. I remember how scared I was as I went from panic attack to that fear of my sanity slipping away. I am a trained psychologist and was aware that something was happening to me. I had a clue what I had. I saw the signs and my genes already made it clear that I was predisposed to have a mood disorder. When I spoke to my old professor, my mentor and friend she insisted that it was probably nothing. I also spoke to my boss in the center I worked for and she was fast to dismiss it as stress. I eventually sought help from someone who didn’t know me on a personal level. The moment I entered the clinic she asked me why I was there. I said I had a feeling I was clinically depressed or bipolar. She confirmed it. I took it in easy, but you know, as it sunk it, i felt the fear creep in. Here I was, a trained psychologist with a clear idea of what I had getting confirmation and I was scared. Fear is part of it i suppose, but when it sank in and I knew what to do there was comfort there. There was no second guessing, there was no groping in the dark, what i had was a name that allowed me to work on something. This resonated with me. Whatever the diagnosis, if you feel iffy about it seek another person’s opinion, but I also think we as individuals know when the diagnosis is right. I love the truth too. It’s something I obsessed over as well, but the thing about the truth is, its never easy.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. This is all extremely true and close to home. though not a psychologist myself, I have studied so much about human nature and psychology in my own time for as long as I can remember, I am pretty clear on what’s going on and I’m not so scared of the diagnosis as much as having to acknowledge everything that has happened to me to get there. But now I am detached again, I’ll try not to think about it too much till it happens 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  2. They have no power over you, none. They can diagnose you or not diagnose you and it’s your choice whether to accept it. It’s your choice whether you want them to treat you or not. You’re still you, you’ll just have another descriptor (to use or not). As for truth and lies, they’re mostly just opinions with contexts.


  3. A diagnosis may make this more real, and it would definitely do that because you would have a name and a label. But, even though that in itself can be helpful, it is also an issue. I mean, people will then tell you how you are supposed to react because of the condition that you have. You may find that you lose control even more. Good luck anyway in your quest for the truth.


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