Too late, and I have fallen deeper into the familiar depression canyon, even though I upped the dosage of the antidepressant, which is why I decided to see if maybe a professional could fix me, which is how I encountered Putin, my first psychiatrist.
My savior and giver of pills is a middle-aged Russian woman with a thick accent and a visage that indicates she would not utter a sound even if nailed to a cross. I immediately thought of Rasputin, that dark figure with strange knowledge and stranger elixirs. And thus, Putin came into my shattered life.
I discovered that a diagnosis of mental illness is made by a psychiatrist’s observation and the patient’s description of emotions and behavior. Putin diagnoses a chemical imbalance, which causes Bipolar II and the mayhem in me. I want to know what chemical is missing in me — what’s its name? I want a brain dipstick to measure how far down I am on the chemical causing the imbalance. “You could use a quart,” and the chemical would be added at just the amount missing. I could return for chemical checks routinely. Instead, they give me chemicals until everyone “feels” that it might be the right stuff and the tank is finally full — until it’s not.
After many days of dark, the new medicine starts to work. I am productive, life-affirming, and all of the great stuff, but after two months, I crash into the abyss. Although quite familiar, this one was the hardest so far because I had tried to get it right, to fix myself, and it wasn’t working. I am lighting a glass pipe filled with something called a “ghost train.”
The brain drugs took weeks and sometimes a few months to ease my bipolar symptoms. l had some awkward side effects while responding to the drugs. One day, I noticed I was kicking my leg rhythmically when I sat. It was hard not to be aware. My rhythm of kicks was up to the tempo of a polka. Sometimes, I would realize I was holding my right arm straight up. You would notice this, feel your arm lifting, even a breeze. But I didn’t notice until the arm was high over my head. It looked like I was either holding up the sky or waiting for the teacher to call on me. There was also brain slosh, brain wobbling, projectile vomiting, and hair pulling that occurred depending on the drug until my body and brain acclimated to the new medicine.
I was grateful that I had a bumper sticker that said: working on the dosage, besides the one that said: “honk if you’re on lithium.” As I waited for the remedy to help, the abyss, the deep soul of despair, got closer, and I was afraid. The dogs knew and stayed near me; their eyes followed me as I moved around the room, their bodies followed me when I left, and they slept on either side of me as I piled the blankets over my head. It was comforting to hear the soft whistles as they exhaled. Typically, I managed to get out of bed by realizing I could go back to bed. And often do. I listed bed as my favorite vacation spot on security forms. Sleeping ate up the time until it was night and the painful day was almost over. The thought of tomorrow was impossible. Two months of darkness follow.
I had energy, and when I opened my eyes upon waking, I didn’t shut them quickly and roll over but wanted to start the day. The whole day was incredible. I was awed at the brilliance of the morning and dazzled by the sense of hope inside of me. I smiled and was so grateful, breathing in and out with a new commitment and joy. I never thought that this could happen to me. I went swimming and walking and grocery shopping. The food looked so inviting again- — the gum drop grapes from the Saturday market, sweet and purple as I popped a few samples. I made eye contact with strangers, started a conversation with the older woman trying to wrestle the carts apart, and felt myself smiling. I will take this magnificent gift and run with it.
Today is world bipolar day. Some of us are in bed and do not care. Some embrace it with too much enthusiasm, and some will still be wearing unmatched socks-who decided that socks have to match? The neurotypicals are missing so many things: patterns in grains of wood floors and stucco walls, and cloud dragons, elephants, and silhouettes. Music pounds through my arteries and then to my brain — sometimes my heart flips.
The discourses continue in my brain — sometimes really fast, sometimes a lot slower. A slide show on speed. This is why I go inside myself — I am busy there. Musings, discoveries, discussions with people I know: I present both sides. Sometimes, I laugh at what is said. I have conversations like they are in real life. I imagine a dialogue between two people I know on a chosen subject. I also talk to myself — usually to chastise me because of a behavior or action like being friendly with the lady at the eyeglass store. I suddenly say to myself: “Rein it in. Go sit down. No one else has offered to help her pick out a pair.”
I recognized myself as I went off on a rant, but it wasn’t someone I would claim when looking from the outside. And in some way, I was outside of myself, watching in dismay as my anger spit out with a rat-tat-tat, and the poor recipient reeled in misery. In this angry mood, I would tell the vast woman complaining about the set of stairs in front of her, “Pretend it’s pie,” or ask the bank teller if a special needs issue prohibited him from grasping a simple transaction.
Isn’t this an emergency to you? It is to me, but only me. No one says, “Oh my God, get in the car and we will go to a place that will fix you.” There is no “place” that can do this.
Today, the external world pulses. I see fall birch leaves covering the sidewalk between each cluster of white bark, holding a crown of yellow leaves. I walk through the tunnel of gold below a gray sky, the wind still wet this late fall afternoon. I feel like I am in a globe you can shake and tiny yellow leaves swirl like snow. I feel my blood move in my veins: I am happy.
We are not damaged but different and conforming to a neurotypical person is sometimes impossible. We are gifted with heightened senses. Intricate thoughts occur and sometimes, a passionate, beautiful piece of art emerges.
And once again, I am dancing under the light of the spaceship. I am happy.
