Sitting in a light, breezy office with a polite, middle-aged healthcare professional. Her manner is clipped, yet understanding and we cover a range of topics as if we were discussing public transport options.
We talk about my childhood (normal), if I have any repressed memories (none), was I subject to abuse (negative), do I Indulge in substance use (minimal).
We’re not talking about these issues for fun, and despite the warmth of our surroundings and the friendly demeanor, there’s the scent of chill in the air.
See, I was there because I acted out. Badly. I said things and did things that felt right and justified at the time, but it turns out they had no correlation with the circumstances around them.
The nice professional explained that the feelings are very real, and I shouldn’t feel guilty for having them. But I need to be aware of them.
I told her I didn’t feel guilty for saying the things I said – feelings are feelings, and our society values self expression, even if it comes in the form of broken furniture – but I did feel ashamed because it turns out that there’s no obvious external source for the strength of my emotional outbursts.
I didn’t have something to blame.
I told her that I almost wish there was some history of story that would give me license to rage and pout and go on spending sprees and just generally behave like an unintelligent dick. I told her that would be sort of welcome – that it would slightly reduce the weight of blame I place on my soul – and her eyes told me that’s kind of a horrible thing to contemplate.
I now know that this is completely not okay. There’s no need to wish such things. But it gives you an idea of the depths of shame these outbursts would produce.
Besides, as it turns out, I was just undiagnosed bipolar.