So here’s the thing about mental illness. It is never, never, never correctly diagnosed on the first try. Some people will be misdiagnosed several times over the years and are left to wonder why the treatments aren’t helping. Some people will never get an accurate diagnosis and thus never receive the appropriate treatment and/or medication.

It took 34 years for someone to get my diagnosis right. And that someone was me.

Me: I think I’m bipolar.

Psychiatrist: Really? Are you sure?

Me: Well, if you’d like I can show you how I charted all of the manic episodes throughout my life. [digs through bag] It’s in here somewhere.

Psychiatrist: No, no, that’s ok. You’ve clearly put some thought into this and I trust your judgment.

I should point out that she doesn’t just trust the average patient’s judgment when they’re self-diagnosing. But we had worked together when I was counseling, and we developed professional trust. Still, though, I diagnosed myself.

And that was it. No fireworks, no applause, no acceptance speech. No instant healing, no undoing of all the pain over the years, no magic relief.

Just “Let’s get you started on some Lithium.”

And we did. I didn’t see the changes immediately. Actually, I didn’t really see the changes at all.

I was primarily looking for a behavior to not show up. I’m not really sure when the “waiting for the other shoe to drop” faded into the background. But I can remember taking a look later and realizing I hadn’t had a manic episode in like 8 or 9 years.

It took me 34 years, many, many mistakes, and much pain (both experienced and inflicted) before I found the road to sanity. I see the differences now. And it’s not what I expected.

It’s strange whipping out that chart with my manic episodes on there and continuing to chart my life. Definitely no dramatic ups or downs. Things were steady, consistent, very undramatic.

It was me, softened.

No more spires on my timeline, so sharp they could draw blood. No more lows that drag me to subterranean depths harboring no light at the end of the tunnel.

But rather rounded edges that keep me slightly muted but still above ground and with fewer casualties.

And that’s my choice. I choose sane every morning when I get ready for the day. I take my meds and I go through my diluted life.

Because, even though my life now feels like an impressionist painting (but one of the really good impressionist painters), I have seen the pain and devastation left in the wake of my mania. And there’s no art in that.