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But because Sara clung to the structure so fervently, I followed her lead. The parameters of our life together drew further and further inward, until we were living in a tiny, airtight box created by the quirks of her disorder.
I became not only her enabler, but her progeny as well.
"I would put on the list of possibilities a mood disorder like bipolar," he said, further cementing it as the official catch-all for crazy people."There is never a story or scene with healthy, happy bipolars because even though that type comprises the bulk of the population, it doesn't sell and isn't exciting," says a bipolar woman who maintains a blog about bipolar disorder called Weird Cake.
"Top this off with sensational misinformation from people like Oprah, and you build a population that fears us and looks for us in dark corners."As a result, half of all American adults say they wouldn't date a bipolar person. I'd read in Psychology Today that ninety percent of marriages involving a bipolar person end in divorce, but I figured that statistic applied to couples who were ill-informed about the illness, people who weren't prepared to meet it head-on.
The most obvious problem is the wild swings in libido: one week your partner wants sex all the time -- maybe too often -- and the next they've got the sexual impulses of a Buddhist monk.
With both Nyla and Sara, I never knew what sort of response my advances would receive.
And after sex, when I thought we'd both enjoyed ourselves, sometimes S would burst into tears. " I'd whisper, to which she'd cryptically reply, "I feel overwhelmed."Sara's life was a constant battle against entropy.
While most of us are bored by too much routine, Sara was obsessive about hers, and as her boyfriend, I found myself joining her in it.
Keith Ablow all but diagnosed Britney Spears on air this month.It took her all day to clean the bathroom, and when she was done, she would begin all over again. " she'd say, as if these predictable tasks were the only options.Our relationship became defined by obsessive routine, something that might normally have made me feel antsy and restless.Sara was twenty-seven, and what people used to call a wag: smart, quick-witted, encyclopedic.
She could recount every failed Everest expedition in mesmerizing detail -- the sort of a talent I would expect of a rock climber, not someone who'd never gone camping. Then I found out."There's something you should know about me," she said, a couple of hours into the date. I tried to remember if I'd sipped from her drink."I'm bipolar," she said."Good," I replied.Before L had found an effective combination of meds, she drove halfway across the country in a mixed state, buying expensive clothes and jewelry for herself, with the goal of committing suicide when she reached California.