On being bipolar
My name is Daniel, and I have felt like I am on fire for the past four days.So forgive me if I'm not feeling so upbeat.
I have bipolar disorder. Type 2, if you care. That means I don’t have the loss-of-control mania that people with Bipolar 1, or “classic” bipolar disorder have. My upswings are less dramatic. What I do is get anxiety that flows through me like molten lava, an intense burning mix of fear and dread that brings me to my knees. That’s what is happening to me as I write this. And I write this because it beats another evening just simmering in this mess.
It’s not always lava, though. More common is the Mental Tornado. That’s where all the thoughts in my head just spin like crazy, more and more thoughts, faster and faster, until it’s all just a blur and I can’t carry a thought to save my life. I fear someday that won’t be a metaphor. This disease kills. Statistics say that a bipolar person is 18-25 times more likely to commit suicide than the average person.
Sometimes I am hypomanic. Those times are great. I have energy, I can focus, I feel like I can DO things, instead of just being overwhelmed by life as I usually am. I wish those episodes came on more often, but they’re really rare for me. Some bipolar people have great bursts of creativity, a true silver lining to the black cloud of the disease. My creativity is stifled by all my states, though. My mood has to be just precisely right. Now, for example, I am forcing myself to think, and type, and write through my condition. I’m not happy with a lot of what I’m putting down here, but I want to get it down while the feeling is with me, the unholy fire I can never put out.
Yeah, those are my “ups”. A lot of fun. Now for my downs. No quotes needed for those.
When I’m down, my personality changes. It may be more accurate to say something else takes over, and I can do naught but watch. Every thought is a blade sinking into my chest. Every word from anyone, myself included, is twisted beyond recognition into more fuel for my self-flagellation. All ideas are proof of my inadequacy, evidence of how I’m never good enough.
The cruel whip bites.
Blood spatters.
Flesh shreds.
Scars are born.
Scars nobody can see, scars that burn and ache but offer little in the way of proof that this is real. It’s not so much that others doubt me, though often they do; I could use this proof myself, some grim vindication that all this pain bought me something besides more time squandered on my way to the grave.
I’ve been on so many medications I honestly cannot remember them all: Prozac, Wellbutrin, Neurontin, Seroquel, Lamictal, Abilify, Depakote, Lithium, Cymbalta, Geodon, the list goes on and on. Some had some effect for awhile. Some never did. Some I had to have blood taken every month to make sure my body wasn’t being damaged. Some damaged my body anyway.
The absolute worst is when I am burning alive inside, but am also depressed. Don’t worry, I would never have guessed that they could coexist either, let alone team up. But they do. They work together. The depression turns all thoughts and words into knives to rip and slash me, while the burning fire fuels more thoughts, more words, whole scenarios where I am unloved, unliked, only tolerated out of some cold distant pity. more cutes, from which spills more fire. More fire, which fuels more racing thoughts, which become more knives. It’s a vicious cycle, and it’s what happens in my head. It seems to get a little worse each time, last a little bit longer, do a little bit more damage, leave a few more scars behind.
This is what I am pitted against every waking moment. Of course, there are times when these demons are quiet, times when the sun is in the sky and I am with someone I care about, and it’s just me and my scars and it’s quiet. But times like this, I have to fight a war of attrition with myself, a vicious battle of extermination with no quarter. I like to think I do pretty well. Most of the time, people can’t even tell something is bothering me unless they know me really well. I can hold it back to where I appear calm, and don’t scream or shout or otherwise lash out and hurt the people closest to me. Not every bipolar person is so fortunate, and my heart breaks for them.
So I find myself second-guessing every thought and emotion I have, good or bad; firewalling my emotions as much as possible, living in a constant state of guard against the next explosion or eruption. I can’t afford not to. I do it to protect the people I care about, and whatever’s left of myself.