This morning I returned to the psychiatrists I saw just before Christmas, this time taking the Wonderspouse with me for back up. On hearing HIS accounts of my manic episodes they finally diagnosed bipolar disorder (maybe he's more believable than me, or maybe the beard adds gravitas) and have at long last started to take me seriously. Furthermore, they seem to have realised that I'm not actually a half-wit and have stopped talking to me in words of one syllable, which is a relief to all and has probably saved them from getting a punch on the nose!
So, just as I am getting used to the antidepressants I'm taking and just as they're starting to take effect (I drove home today for the first time in a month without my brain having to fight my mind's urge to swerve into the nearest lorry, and my legs have finally stopped their involuntary movements), I'm now told that I can only take them short term and that I will probably need different drugs to manage my condition successfully in the long term. Even then, it will, apparently, not simply be a case of just taking them, but of managing my mood and assessing exactly how much I need to take at any given time.
So now it's time to research Lamotrigine and Quetiapine, the potential candidates for future medication. In the meantime the shrinks have decided they want to see me every 2 weeks and have given the Wonderspouse strict instructions to ring them immediately if I show signs of elevated mood for more than 2 days in a row!
Better not get too happy then - or I'll end up in the nuthouse!