Honestly, I'm not entirely sure where to begin. I'm angry and broken and jaded.
It's been a hellish two months. Near the end of June/beginning of July, I began spiraling down into a major depressive episode. Nothing new, the old "been there done that" at this point. I'm no stranger to becoming bedridden during these episodes, void of any feeling or motivation. It's voluntary, of course; nothing is keeping me from moving, I'm neither physically bound to the bed nor incapable of moving my body by myself, but the emotional deterioration at that point manifests itself as a physical weight. My psychiatrist described it as "psychomotor retardation." But this time... this was a different beast. Four days in bed refusing food, followed by two weeks of not showering, then becoming a day-by-day occurrence of no appetite or desire for personal hygiene. Though my therapist told me it was an important mark of progress that I reached out to her, she was concerned that I wasn't really associating it with a depressive episode. The majority of my life has been spent in a constant state of suicidal ideation and, as I grew older, an attachment to self harm as a means of regaining control. As this episode grew and mutated, as it chipped away at the pieces of my humanity, I wasn't having those dark thoughts. I wasn't having ANY thoughts, so I figured maybe, I was just tired? Maybe I was playing a bizarre game with myself, withholding basic care for... fun? She had to spell it out that no, this wasn't normal. A complete disregard for taking care of myself wasn't attributed to a healthy mental stability. And then things got worse.
Chaos was amping up in every aspect of my life. Triggers have been exploding around me this year, and while they rattled me to my core, I was working so hard to learn how to confront them, accept them, and move forward with these major changes. There was a straw that broke the camel's back and I slipped into that darkness I was so familiar with. I needed that familiarity and comfort, something that made sense to me, and because I've convinced myself that no one who understands my breaks with reality would be there for me, I believed I was doomed to handle this on my own. In that moment it's the brief calm before the storm, when the very air around you seems alive and vibrating, then all hell breaks loose. I have the slightest breadth, the last bit of rationality where I can choose to reach out, but blink and it's gone. The demons come roaring back in and I no longer know where to turn, who to trust, how to escape. I resort to a basic primal instinct to survive. Because these breaks feel like an entity wholly detached from myself, an invading presence, all I know to do is fight. The self harm began as a means to an end, and it's remained my most immediate and dependable shock back to reality. I fought through it, but what greeted me on the other side was despair. The emptiness and lethargy sank their claws into me and I had no strength left to push them away. The void inside me began filling with a snarling anger, and the weight felt as though it was physically crushing me. I tearfully tried to express how close to my threshold I was again, that I couldn't take on more, raising my broken hands in defeat, but I had no choice other than to soldier on. I would put my hope in a means of relief only to have it taken away. And again, things got worse.
With bipolar type II, depressive episodes are more frequent and manic episodes are much more mild; hypomania lasts only a few days, and with less intensity. When I thought I couldn't be dragged lower, I started feeling a lightness. Within a day or so, the lightness felt warped. It wasn't right it wasn't right I didn't feel right. But I was so relived to be out of the depths that I rejoiced in the renewed energy. I took on too many projects; I couldn't slow my mind down enough to articulate, resulting in such rushed, garbled speech; I still wasn't sleeping or eating but now it wasn't because I couldn't bring myself to care, it was due to the fact that I just had TOO! MUCH! TO DOOOOO!!!! It's a wild, discomforting, and unpleasant sensation but I can't stop myself. I only experience these a handful of times a year (with the exception of a nearly full-blown manic episode after the psych ward prescribed me the wrong medication ratio: too much of an anti-depressant and all of a sudden I was OFF TO THE RACES!). Sure enough, it tapered off over the course of a few days, though instead of coming down to level out, I just kept going. Back to the bottom. Desperate for anything, anything at all to shut out the tumult and the shouting, I began to fantasize "I could try heroin, just the one time, what if it helps?" After witnessing people in my own life battle their addiction, who the fuck was I to ignore everything they've been through and tell myself it could be my savior? But I was spent, exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster of extremes that I was more than ready to give up again. If hell is wailing and the gnashing of teeth, then I have been in hell my entire life.
The part of me that's kept me alive these 28 years kept control long enough to reach out to my treatment team. We're continuing to examine why I engage in the self-sabotage of never contacting them until the worst has passed. My psychiatrist was immediately laying the groundwork for a medication switch: the trauma and overwhelming, unrelenting stressors were enough to finally override my medications. Now she's wanting to introduce lithium. It was the first mood stabilizer discovered and has been in use for decades. It's effective... and it can fuck. you. up. As long as you consistently monitor it, there shouldn't be much cause for alarm. Your psychiatrist, who is in fact a medical doctor, will be able to see warning signs and adjust accordingly. But the way you monitor the lithium is through frequent blood work. If you know me at all, you know how NOT about that I am. For perspective, the first time I had an IV I attacked everyone in the room (albeit high on laughing gas, I would die to see footage of that, but alas it doesn't exist) and it took six or seven adults to restrain me. And it's not like I was a little kid or anything, I was 20 !! I trust my psychiatrist though, and I'm so grateful to have found her as I feel like she's a perfect fit. She errs on the side of caution to a fault and for someone as anxious as me, it's wonderful to feel so thoroughly taken care of. But the uneasiness lingers and I can't shake it; the confusing, frustrating, inexplicable fear or needles, and the terror that this will not work. That terror long made itself a home within me and relishes every opportunity to slither back into my thoughts. What if this last hope fails me? What then?
All of this to segue into why I'm so angry now. I spent the last two months in a nightmare; dragged down into the mud to be slingshot into space and then plummeting back to the ground. Every morning I awoke in pain. The nights would pass with either night terrors or of dreams of a life I've always longed for, a life so complete that when the dream ended all I could do was sob. My appetite is feebly returning; a few days ago was the first time in months that I got out of bed with my alarm and more importantly, managed to eat more than one meal. Throughout the course of this cycling, my body has acclimated to the denial of food. (Those with eating disorders: I have only felt a fraction of your pain, and I am devastated that you've had to deal with it. Your courage and strength to fight and heal is beyond measure.) I can't seem to reconcile my mental state with my physical; it's as though they're two separate identities that exist on completely different plains and I'll spend the rest of my life running in circles trying to bring them together. I want to fix things, and every slip-up pierces like a blade. A reminder that I've failed yet again, and will continue to fail for eternity. I have no natural control over my mood episodes, and I'm so worn down by being violently jerked around. Relief has been achievable through responsible medication, not in a way to sedate and ignore myself but to clear the debris from my mind. We didn't go into too much detail but my doctor explained that with every mood episode, your brain is physically effected. I don't really know what happens but there are actual cognitive repercussions. Side note: the wonderful thing about lithium is that it PROTECTS your brain! That's amazing.
But after spending almost the entirety of my existence at the mercy of a hereditary chemical imbalance isn't something I wouldn't wish on anyone. It's not a death sentence, it doesn't mean my life is valueless, but it can mean that at times, it's a heavy, debilitating burden. And recently I've seen a romanticization of mental illness; showing off shiny badges of "depression and anxiety" when no professional diagnosis has ever been given. Lately it's been countless, casual mentions all around me of "well *such and such* happened so now I'm manic!" "I didn't sleep last night, I'm manic!" "I'm so sad and then I get happy, I'm so bipolar haha!" My diagnosis is not something I take lightly, and it sure as fuck is not a magical cool label you can slap on yourself. It's not a two-emotion happy vs. sad scenario. There are also the professions of "hmm, feeling dissociative!" "oh you know just spending my day dissociating!" I have nearly an entire week of my life that I can't recall due to dissociation. I was mentally suffering so much my mind detached itself from reality in order to cope. There are faint memories leading up to it, but people have to fill in the blanks for me up to the point where I'm able to remember what happened after. Too often people are confusing external influences that would rightly cause someone to feel nervous, depressed, or hysterical, but those on their own are normal human emotions and unless they meet specific criteria laid forth by the DSM-V, they are not a disorder. Yes, there truly are those out there with mental illness who have their own reasons for not having sought help quite yet, but it's not something you work through in isolation. It's not something you read online and say "sounds like me!" It just isn't.
I didn't know how to start this and I don't know how to close it either. Like I said, I'm tired and angry. Exhausted after rapid cycling, enraged that someone would dare treat an illness so flippantly. It's examples like that that make it so hard for people like me to be taken seriously sometimes. The unceasing torment breaks me down, and I try so hard to build myself up from the remains. That can physically drain you of everything you have left, but I fear taking time to myself so I can heal because what if I lose my job? What if people who were counting on me see me as unreliable, a leech, someone who runs for cover when they're feeling sad, boohoo. I want to encourage people as best I can that they're deserving and worthy of feeling healthy and sound, but now I'm so fed up with watching it become a battle for the spotlight. I'm tired of seeing someone outspoken, with an audience, pushing wildly unhealthy coping mechanisms, misrepresenting their disorder and putting the notion in people's minds that oh, I totally have that too! Please take care of yourselves, but also take care of each other. If you truly believe something in your head isn't right, I'll do my best to find the best help I can through as many organizations as possible, regardless of where you live or what you can afford. I'll give it my all to help you to the healthy and whole state that you deserve to be. And please, please know while I'm upset with those who make the broad statements mentioned earlier, I don't wish them ill. I want them, need them, to reach out to a professional. Because even if there are not underlying disorders, just knowing that someone with all that might and knowledge is supporting you and has your back through whatever life throws at you, that's an incredible feeling. I'm lucky enough to have two of those badass women! Not super lucky for my wallet, but ya gotta do what you gotta do.
"I used to think it would sleep. I used to think, as I aged with time, it would shut its eyes and just let me be." Crime In Stereo
The part of me that's kept me alive these 28 years kept control long enough to reach out to my treatment team. We're continuing to examine why I engage in the self-sabotage of never contacting them until the worst has passed. My psychiatrist was immediately laying the groundwork for a medication switch: the trauma and overwhelming, unrelenting stressors were enough to finally override my medications. Now she's wanting to introduce lithium. It was the first mood stabilizer discovered and has been in use for decades. It's effective... and it can fuck. you. up. As long as you consistently monitor it, there shouldn't be much cause for alarm. Your psychiatrist, who is in fact a medical doctor, will be able to see warning signs and adjust accordingly. But the way you monitor the lithium is through frequent blood work. If you know me at all, you know how NOT about that I am. For perspective, the first time I had an IV I attacked everyone in the room (albeit high on laughing gas, I would die to see footage of that, but alas it doesn't exist) and it took six or seven adults to restrain me. And it's not like I was a little kid or anything, I was 20 !! I trust my psychiatrist though, and I'm so grateful to have found her as I feel like she's a perfect fit. She errs on the side of caution to a fault and for someone as anxious as me, it's wonderful to feel so thoroughly taken care of. But the uneasiness lingers and I can't shake it; the confusing, frustrating, inexplicable fear or needles, and the terror that this will not work. That terror long made itself a home within me and relishes every opportunity to slither back into my thoughts. What if this last hope fails me? What then?
All of this to segue into why I'm so angry now. I spent the last two months in a nightmare; dragged down into the mud to be slingshot into space and then plummeting back to the ground. Every morning I awoke in pain. The nights would pass with either night terrors or of dreams of a life I've always longed for, a life so complete that when the dream ended all I could do was sob. My appetite is feebly returning; a few days ago was the first time in months that I got out of bed with my alarm and more importantly, managed to eat more than one meal. Throughout the course of this cycling, my body has acclimated to the denial of food. (Those with eating disorders: I have only felt a fraction of your pain, and I am devastated that you've had to deal with it. Your courage and strength to fight and heal is beyond measure.) I can't seem to reconcile my mental state with my physical; it's as though they're two separate identities that exist on completely different plains and I'll spend the rest of my life running in circles trying to bring them together. I want to fix things, and every slip-up pierces like a blade. A reminder that I've failed yet again, and will continue to fail for eternity. I have no natural control over my mood episodes, and I'm so worn down by being violently jerked around. Relief has been achievable through responsible medication, not in a way to sedate and ignore myself but to clear the debris from my mind. We didn't go into too much detail but my doctor explained that with every mood episode, your brain is physically effected. I don't really know what happens but there are actual cognitive repercussions. Side note: the wonderful thing about lithium is that it PROTECTS your brain! That's amazing.
But after spending almost the entirety of my existence at the mercy of a hereditary chemical imbalance isn't something I wouldn't wish on anyone. It's not a death sentence, it doesn't mean my life is valueless, but it can mean that at times, it's a heavy, debilitating burden. And recently I've seen a romanticization of mental illness; showing off shiny badges of "depression and anxiety" when no professional diagnosis has ever been given. Lately it's been countless, casual mentions all around me of "well *such and such* happened so now I'm manic!" "I didn't sleep last night, I'm manic!" "I'm so sad and then I get happy, I'm so bipolar haha!" My diagnosis is not something I take lightly, and it sure as fuck is not a magical cool label you can slap on yourself. It's not a two-emotion happy vs. sad scenario. There are also the professions of "hmm, feeling dissociative!" "oh you know just spending my day dissociating!" I have nearly an entire week of my life that I can't recall due to dissociation. I was mentally suffering so much my mind detached itself from reality in order to cope. There are faint memories leading up to it, but people have to fill in the blanks for me up to the point where I'm able to remember what happened after. Too often people are confusing external influences that would rightly cause someone to feel nervous, depressed, or hysterical, but those on their own are normal human emotions and unless they meet specific criteria laid forth by the DSM-V, they are not a disorder. Yes, there truly are those out there with mental illness who have their own reasons for not having sought help quite yet, but it's not something you work through in isolation. It's not something you read online and say "sounds like me!" It just isn't.
I didn't know how to start this and I don't know how to close it either. Like I said, I'm tired and angry. Exhausted after rapid cycling, enraged that someone would dare treat an illness so flippantly. It's examples like that that make it so hard for people like me to be taken seriously sometimes. The unceasing torment breaks me down, and I try so hard to build myself up from the remains. That can physically drain you of everything you have left, but I fear taking time to myself so I can heal because what if I lose my job? What if people who were counting on me see me as unreliable, a leech, someone who runs for cover when they're feeling sad, boohoo. I want to encourage people as best I can that they're deserving and worthy of feeling healthy and sound, but now I'm so fed up with watching it become a battle for the spotlight. I'm tired of seeing someone outspoken, with an audience, pushing wildly unhealthy coping mechanisms, misrepresenting their disorder and putting the notion in people's minds that oh, I totally have that too! Please take care of yourselves, but also take care of each other. If you truly believe something in your head isn't right, I'll do my best to find the best help I can through as many organizations as possible, regardless of where you live or what you can afford. I'll give it my all to help you to the healthy and whole state that you deserve to be. And please, please know while I'm upset with those who make the broad statements mentioned earlier, I don't wish them ill. I want them, need them, to reach out to a professional. Because even if there are not underlying disorders, just knowing that someone with all that might and knowledge is supporting you and has your back through whatever life throws at you, that's an incredible feeling. I'm lucky enough to have two of those badass women! Not super lucky for my wallet, but ya gotta do what you gotta do.
"I used to think it would sleep. I used to think, as I aged with time, it would shut its eyes and just let me be." Crime In Stereo
