This includes the life and times of a bipolar MD. The blog was started when I was in medical school- the previous title was Highs and Lows Bipolar in Medical School. I'm changing the focus of the blog but keeping old posts
So, Emily Forest isn't actually my name- It's not that I'm ashamed of my illness; it's just that it's probably better not to advertise. Especially given my position as a medical student. If I ever become a world famous _________ then I wouldn't try so hard to hide it. But, right now I'm in a position where I, like all others in medical school, have to prove myself, have to come off as professional, able to handle pressure, enthusiastic, trustworthy... all of those adjectives they put on the evaluation sheet next to check boxes indicating "rarely observed" "sometimes observed" all the way to "always observed." And aside from not being professional, able to handle pressure, enthusiastic, trustworthy, you'd better not piss anyone off, particularly on certain rotations, such as ________ (it may be different at different schools- fill in whatever is relevant to you), or you'll end up with a check in the "rarely observed" box.
So, anyway, the name. It's actually my "porn name." One night at summer camp, after "lights out" when we were technically supposed to be sleeping, one of the other girls asked each of us the name of our first pet and the street we grew up on. Basically, if you combine these two entities, you get your "porn name." And, it's supposed to be something like Peppy (your first dog) LaRue (your childhood street). My first pet was named Emily, and I grew up on Forest Street, so I came up with Emily Forest.
And, that is the name I write under. So I can be enthusiastic, together, and trustworthy on the wards.
I just got a shipment of medications from Glasko Smith Kline. Whenever I get a package, I excitedly shake it like a little kid on Christmas. And when I hear the moroca-y sound of lots of tiny pills tumbling around inside their plastic bottles, I get very excited. Because this means that another month has gone by where I will NOT have to pay twelve hundred dollars for my medications.
Yes, my medications cost 1200 per month. And getting help from the drug companies was like pulling teeth. I HAVE insurance, so I didn't technically qualify for most of the programs. The fact that my insurance caps out at 2,000 dollars a year didn't seem to count when I first applied. So I appealed. And in some cases, I appealed again. Finally I'm at the point where most of my drugs are supplied for free through some of these prescription drug charity programs.
This makes me really mad about being bipolar. Most things can be fixed. Relationships can be repaired, tattoos can be lasered away (If I were to so desire), but I will always be a slave to the pharmacy. Always always always. In day to day life, it seems easy enough. I get my prescriptions, I go to the pharmacy (or as is the case right now, I get my drugs from the companies), I take my pills... everything's fine. The trouble comes when I realize I'm running out of medication and I forgot to tell my doctor I needed another prescription. Sometimes when I'm planning to go on vacation, I realize I'm set to run out of medication right smack in the middle of the week. And sometimes, if you've got your 90 day supply, you can't get another batch of pills until that 90 days are up. So if you're going on vacation at day 85, and you need 10 days worth of pills during your vacation, you may not be able to get those extra 5 pills before leaving. That means you have to carry a prescription with you, and make a visit to the pharmacy wherever you happen to be.
The inconvenience isn't a big deal in and of itself- I don't sit around thinking about it, crying over it... it's just that it's a reminder.
My roommate just told me about a "Mad Pride" movement. It’s sort of like Gay Pride, apparently, except it’s for those with “differently balanced” chemicals. I’ve never heard of any medical conditions that have associated pride movements.
Asthma Pride- the members get together to take beta blockers and smoke in an enclosed area, gasping that they deserve acceptance too, that they shouldn’t have to hide behind inhalers.
I guess Asthma Pride lacks a certain glamour, nobody proudly says, “Van Gogh had asthma,” while puffing away at an inhaler. Nobody attributes any great literary works of genius to hyperactive airways. And nobody claims that asthma attacks are accompanied by bursts of creativity.
I’m bipolar. I’ve had the bursts of creativity, the midnight tattoo runs, I paint, I write, I have great stories… But then there’s the bank account, overdrawn by 2000 dollars, there’s the fact that I now have what I refer to as the “Take-Your-Medication-For-The-Love-Of-God” tattoo, there’s the trail of worried friends and relatives, the hospital stays, the medication…
It’s sort of like when they show these beautiful snowy scenes in movies and on television shows. They don’t necessarily show the day after, when the snow has turned gray and slushy, when your shoes aren’t quite warm enough or waterproof enough to keep your toes safe, leaving you with little white prunes at the end of the day, and when you can’t even shop for groceries because the cars that are turning the snow gray and black are all stuck and blocking traffic, wheels desperately screeching and spinning. But it seems so romantic the day before, little white flecks gently floating out of the sky, children sledding, snowmen… There’s a day after with mental illness too.
I’m not proud of being mad. I accept it, I medicate it, and I manage it so that I can graduate from medical school and become a doctor, hopefully without accruing any more debt, tattoos, or bizarre collections of items that seem like a good idea to purchase at 2 in the morning.
