But you just hit the nail on the head (both you and Douglas).
Venting within the community is perfect. We all understand. I mean, we all have our own experiences, but the feelings of frustration and irritation and anger and soaring, out-of-control florid mania and sadness beyond all comprehension are universally felt and accepted here as valid.
With outsiders … not so much.
I don’t mind that they don’t understand — how could they, exactly? What I do mind is the complete lack of empathy and the stigma. It’s as if, no matter how many medical studies you talk about, no matter how well you keep plugging away in your own life to try to show that, to paraphrase another old kids’ TV show, “people with bipolar are people too,” the reaction is pretty universally either shutting their ears and screaming “LA LA LA” at the top of their lungs like, well, a 2-year-old — or, worse, treating us like we have contagious cooties, a bit like people shamefully treated others with AIDS in the early ’80s.
The latter reaction is at least a bit more understandable, though, because so many of those very same medical studies indicate bipolar disorder is genetic/hereditary in origin. Which means, among less-than-well-meaning family members … THEY COULD GET IT TOO ONE DAY.
So I guess the human reaction in that case would be to jump into De-Nile — and forget about the crocodiles snapping behind you. Too bad we get treated like crocodiles in the process (and not with love like Steve Irwin did, either).

I am SOOOO glad you said this. Between a four hour “performance” every morning (I’m a radio announcer) and playing CYA* with everyone I talk to, it’s such a relief whenever I can find a little place where I can just let it all go. Unfortunately, I’m precious short on those places.
The work thing is separate; after all, they pay me to sound cheerful and upbeat five days a week. But I am so sick of having to qualify everything I say to the people in my life. It seems that they want to pick everything apart, so by the time I get done with the qualifications (yes, I am seeing my therapist and yes I am taking my medications and yes I know I am better off without that man and I’m sure there IS a silver lining in my ex-husband the drug addict showing up (without notice) to see our daughter all of a sudden, and I’m sure that I’m better off without the camper so it’s a blessing we got hit on the interstate and it was totalled, etc etc etc) … I am exhausted. And it feels less like a conversation than a fencing match where I survive only if I can parry all the other guy’s shots.
I am so tired.
*Cover Your *ss

Lisa:
Did you listen to Quaker theologian Parker Palmer’s exposition on the literal exhaustion caused by depression?
(It’s accessible through BB; Therese posted a link a couple of weeks ago.)
http://blog.beliefnet.com/beyondblue/2007/09/the-soul-in-depression.html
It chilled me to the bone.
And though Palmer didn’t say it exactly that way, your metaphor — being in a fencing match 24-7-365 trying to avoid being stabbed — is sadly all too apt.

There’s also the alternative of expressing one’s pain through art or other creative work. That way, it is possible for us to express our pain without “whining” … which tends to bring the whiner down as well as the listener.

My husband ‘hears’ a lot of my anxiety as nagging. Knowing that it does come out sounding like nagging, and knowing that he does in fact perceive it this way, has allowed me to try to change the way I let off my anxiety/steam. When I feel an eruption coming on I’m also trying to tell him that I’m just listing the things that are overwhelming me at the moment, not giving him a laundry list of things to fix. I think it is helpful for both of us- it really causes me to stop and think more clearly.
btw, I think the best part of the vlogs is that I can really hear your voice as I read the posts now!