Between Two Cycles
It’s happened.
I wrote an article almost a year ago now called “Bipolar Freakshow” where I talked about my story as well as the stigma and misinformation around Bipolar as a mental illness. In that article, I discussed how the worst place to be when you’re Bipolar is that strip of time between a high and a low; where you’re still wired — mind going 1,000 MPH — but you start hating yourself. The main goal of medication, in my opinion, is to shrink or eliminate those times because they’re the most dangerous.
Well, I think I need to start thinking about medication adjustment because I’ve been sitting in this barren wasteland since my birthday on the 10th.
It’s going to be a while before I can see a shrink again, though, so I’ll need to get past it with an annoying amount of positive self-talk and over-sharing. As such, I hope you enjoy my suffering because it’s all I got right now.
Everything is either twitching, sore, or uncertain. My eyes hurt even as my left eyelid kicks like a poorly trained mule. I find my leg is constantly bouncing during the most mundane of events. My blood pressure is high again, despite my otherwise good diet and no weight gain.
Sidebar: That’s something people don’t seem to get. There are real physical impacts from mental illness. A panic attack isn’t solely in your head; it’s a collection of mental and physical symptoms that enter a feedback loop you can’t stop. For me, it means this persistent high blood pressure bullshit I carry with me spikes to 150–160/85–100 and my heart rate “idles” at ~100.
It sucks. It hurts. Sometimes it feels like I’m having a heart attack. I’ll get past it, but, fuck, it sucks.
Anyway. The tiniest of negative news can kick me over the edge, even if it’s not directed at me. Today I saw the Twitter feed of an agent who bemoaned how much stress they feel they’re under when one of their authors quits their day job. This made me think, “Well, what the fuck did you think they wanted to do?” Following that, I allowed myself to let my thoughts start a shadowed circle-jerk of whispered conspiracies and depressed certainties.
They’re all betting on your failure
Just there for their slice of the pie, fuck everyone else
They’ll never take someone as fucked up in the head as you
You’re too much work for anyone to handle, let alone sell
I want to say I stood up and told myself they’re not betting on my failure, they’re there to help authors while making a living, they will take me, and I’m not too much work, but that’d be a complete lie.
I wallowed in these thoughts, only battling with the worst thoughts (which I will keep to myself). I didn’t have the energy to fight them all. I’m on pure survival mode, so to speak.
That’s the problem with these in-between moments — these times between a manic high (however mild) and depression (again, however mild) — my brain overpowers my determination and willpower. It drives me to the floor, steps on my neck, and whispers a question into my ear over and over again until I’m sobbing on the floor, surviving, but only just.
You are nothing.
I had grand plans of wrapping a humorous sub-plot into this post. It included the latest mole intruder in our house and how they nearly stole a dog bone bigger than they were, but I don’t have it in me. Hell, I don’t even have it in me to find gifs to dump in here.
I have to pick my battles. And the battle today is acknowledging that this piece is a stream-of-consciousness flow of text that’s meant to slowly edge down my ambient stress and anxiety so I can keep functioning.
I’m sorry if you came looking for inspiration and found this. I’ll try next time.
