46 • Travel & Wellness
By Kelly West Bevan
M
y husband and I sat in a cramped office as I staved off a panic attack. My psychiatrist seemed hesitant to speak. He knew my concerns surrounding a serious mental health diagnosis; I knew he was wrestling with how to lessen the blow. I took a deep breath, wiped away the tears with the back of my hand and allayed his fears with a nod. I had finally pieced together the entirety of my symptoms over the years and I knew. So he laid it out there with four swift words, “You have bipolar disorder.” I should have been relieved. After six months of questions, I finally had my answer. The prognosis made sense to my husband, my kids, my mother, my therapist — even to me, I guess. But it was a diagnosis I had been unwilling to consider until this very moment. Now I knew what was causing the unpredictable moods, my ability to go from zero to pissed off in thirty seconds, the chaos in my head that woke me up at night in the middle of a to-do list. I had an explanation for why I couldn’t stay awake past noon, why three-hour naps were a necessity. But the guilt weighed heavily. No matter how unrealistic, I felt that as a former psychotherapist, I should have recognized the symptoms earlier, even though I had left that career over ten years ago. I could have avoided months of doctors’ appointments, and uncontrollable outbursts with my kids. The tears. The worry.
