I had a huge blow to a dream of mine recently. It was an incredible opportunity to break into an adventurous and fulfilling career– but the circumstances turned out to be dangerous to my mental health. Obstacles such as isolation, persistent daylight, lack of access to my therapist and support network, and bad roommates combined into a comedy of errors that perhaps an able-minded person could handle. It was very nearly disastrous for me. Since then, I’ve been grappling with the realization that my condition is actually a disability. My options will be limited by it, no matter how hard I try. I’m in mourning.

Despite my obvious struggles, I’ve always believed that I would be Great someday. I suspect it’s a remnant of past mania. I’ve had beliefs that were unlikely to the point of being offensive, given that I had invested no effort at all: I would get a PhD in medicine and cure lupus, I would write a letter to Malala Yousafsi and we would collaborate on world peace, I would become uber-rich and buy enough land to safely house all the persecuted minorities of the world. God do I not want to admit that to myself. That mentality manifests to a lesser extent when I’m more sane, too: I’ll get a government job in a field I don’t have a degree in, I’ll get a PhD at all, I’ll write a blog that gets popular and write commissions for newspapers or whatever. Maybe, if I’m really lucky, those things could happen, but it’s dangerous to believe in.

I’ve never believed in myself more than when I was manic, but I was believing in lies.

Sigh…

–Lottie