Mental

A manic episode in real time

“I have two moods. One is Roy, rollicking Roy, the wild ride of a mood. And Pam, sediment Pam, who stands on the shore and sobs…. Sometimes the tide is in, sometimes it’s out.” Carrie Fisher

Multimedium painting: Shame is a flower, by Kristy Webster

About a week and half ago I woke up after getting very little sleep raging with irritability. Every minor inconvenience or perceived slight felt intolerable, every human in my path that morning seemed insufferable. Every interaction was laced with (perceived) jabs, and mockery. I was sure of it. I went through a car wash because my window was so filthy (hence why I was at the car wash) and the sun was in my eyes. The woman directing me where to go was laughing as I struggled to see. I felt rage bubbling in my throat and as the suds covered my car I hit the steering wheel, screaming and crying. I stopped to get my medication and I couldn’t hear the man behind the drive-up window. My heart pounded, I grabbed my steering wheel tightly and smothered my frustration. I listened to my music full blast on my way home. Tears that felt like acid streamed down my face.

When I got home I sat at the table across from my daughter and told her all about my day. She listened and nodded; she’s a great listener. But after several minutes I noticed a look on her face—she looked confused and bewildered. I felt the tension in her eyes.

“Oh my god,” I said, “Oh. God. I’ve been talking for ten minutes straight without taking a breath. I think I’ve covered a dozen subjects.”

My daughter smiled a little, but remained silent.

“Oh Jesus. I’ve been wanting to shop more, everything is pissing me off, I can’t stop talking and oversharing. I think I’m manic.”

I went to Ross the day after for just two things: art canvases, and something else I can’t remember. After I put those objects into my cart I started noticing cute dresses, purses, and housewares. I filled my cart. I walked around for 45 minutes trying to talk myself out of buying everything I had thrown in there, on top of the only two things I planned on buying. Finally I took a deep breath, returned everything else to its place, and left with only the planned items.

When I got home I told my daughter, “You won’t believe what happened! I went to Ross and I almost bought a bunch of things I didn't need but then I stopped myself!”

It felt like the biggest win ever. My daughter said, “That’s good!”

I’ve been channeling my mania into painting, and writing. I want to read, but I can’t focus when I’m manic. I haven’t been sleeping much either. But again, I felt proud of myself for making the most out of this episode. I had it under control. The end was just around the corner, right?

The next day I woke up without an ounce of energy. I stayed in bed with my dogs most of the day. I tried to watch shows or movies, but nothing captured my attention. I figured that I had finally crashed. I prefer depression to mania. At least when I’m down, I don’t feel completely out of control and emotionally dysregulated. At least I’m not reading into every single word, facial gesture, every nuance of someone’s body language, convinced that it means they think I’m stupid, or wrong, or crazy and they’re talking about me behind my back.

A day or two later I drove to the bookstore and realized that I was still deep into this episode. No matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t concentrate. Negative and paranoid thoughts kept running through my head. I felt my brain unroot itself from its assigned place, like it was swimming all over the place. Nothing felt right. Nothing made sense. It took me twenty-five minutes to get somewhere that is only ten minutes away. I kept taking wrong turn after wrong turn. I was screaming and crying again. Once I got to the parking lot of the bookstore, I couldn’t stop crying. I was hysterical. It took me a good twenty minutes to get under control and leave my car.

The next day, I crashed again. Spent the day in bed. I convinced myself that this manic episode was over.

Thinking I was in a much better place, yesterday I went to the same bookstore & coffee shop to get some work done for fall quarter. I felt productive. Being productive makes me feel like a better person. Like I have to earn my place in the world, earn the air I breathe through hard work and constant sacrifice.

But I started to lose focus and became confused once more. My heart started racing, my brain started running circles in my skull again, and tears streamed down my face. All I could do was sit there in public trying to keep up with the torrential downpour by wiping tears off of my face, but I couldn’t. I felt helpless as strangers walked past me. I couldn’t bring myself to look at anyone, and for several minutes, I couldn’t move. I remained frozen.

I finally put away my laptop and decided to distract myself by looking for a birthday gift for my sister. But store after store, I couldn’t find the perfect gift. I got angrier and angrier. I wanted to scream. I wanted to knock over whole racks of clothing. Instead I managed to buy a book and go home.

I tried to paint to calm myself, but then I hated what I was painting. I cried from disappointment. I can’t do anything right. All I could do was crawl back into bed and cry, let my dogs and my cat smother me with unconditional love, and use their soft ears to wipe away tears.

At the start, I was convinced that this was my first manic episode in years. I felt proud of myself for being self-aware enough to identify what I was going through. But as the days passed I realized that more than likely this wasn’t the first episode I’d had in years. It was just the first one I’ve managed to notice in a very long time.

In my twenties and early thirties, before I was officially diagnosed, I had no idea what was happening to me. Each episode felt like being possessed. Then one day, a spontaneous exorcism would awaken me. I would look around and find myself in a situation, a relationship, or on a path completely misaligned with my true nature and purpose. I ignored red flags in whatever facet of my life it had impacted, usually, several, at once. In that moment I’d come to the realization that I had completely abandoned myself. I would find myself in toxic relationships, realizing how unsafe I felt, finally admitting to myself how I had been freezing and fawning my way through it for weeks or months. Often I would overcommit to several projects, extra work loads, and other volunteer positions during a manic phase only to crash and burnout when it was over. Waking up from mania often reminds me of the lyrics from “Once in a Lifetime,” by Talking Heads:

You may ask yourself, "What is that beautiful house?"

You may ask yourself, "Where does that highway go to?"

And you may ask yourself, "Am I right, am I wrong?"

And you may say to yourself, "My God, what have I done?"

Heavy on the: "My God, what have I done?"

It’s been common for people who have witnessed me being symptomatic to believe that I’m simply not trying hard enough. But the truth is I’ve been medicated for almost twenty years. I am in therapy twice a week. Believe me, I’m trying. I am always trying.

Recently I provided my prescriber with my genetic testing that informs prescribers which medications work for their patient based on genetic interference. As it turns out, every different medication I’ve prescribed since I was eighteen (while I was diagnosed with clinical depression, not bipolar disorder) was in the “red column.” Meaning, there’s substantial genetic interference. They also discovered that I have a gene that makes it very difficult to transport serotonin. Of dozens of antidepressants, only one didn’t test as having genetic interference.

This provided some vindication, some validation that I have been doing the work. But my treatment has often been ineffective. Because in addition to all of this, bipolar disorder isn’t my only diagnosis. Most recently I was also diagnosed with complex PTSD, severe anxiety disorder, and ADD. I was also treated for borderline personality disorder in my early thirties, but never officially diagnosed. Several people are convinced that should be my primary diagnosis, and I don’t disagree with them, but it’s not the whole story, and it doesn’t account for all the chemical misfires in my brain. It all overlaps and I can see why it’s difficult to know which condition is causing what symptom.

Regardless, this sucks. I’m terrified that I’ll say something or do something I’ll regret. Afraid I’ll overspend, afraid I’ll be inappropriately reactive, or that I’ll sit motionless in public not being able to contain my frustration, my helplessness and my tears. My impulse control is low, my filter is down, and my emotions feel like tidal waves. My feet are buried in the sand, and I feel and impending sense of doom as the tide draws closer to my motionless body.

Years ago a former friend insisted on romanticizing our shared diagnosis, insisting it was a gift, the thing that gave us our creativity. I have never believed that. If that were true I would trade every ounce of my “creativity” to not live like this. Not only that, but Hannah Gadsby’s Nanette does an incredible job dismantling this myth:

“Do you know why we have the sunflowers? It’s not because Vincent van Gogh suffered. It’s because Vincent van Gogh had a brother who loved him. Through all the pain, he had a tether, a connection to the world. And that is the focus of the story we need – connection.”

I have some many beautiful, kind and loving people in my life. I’m very fortunate. My sister and my daughter are the two who have had to bear me at my worst, and who can hold space for me during my most perilous episodes. And without these anchors, these connections, I would have drifted off to sea years ago.

No one can convince me that artists, writers, musicians, and other creatives must suffer in order to maintain their creativity.

If there is a gift, it is in the moments of self-awareness where we can both experience and witness our thoughts and feelings. This is one of those times. I can’t control all the thoughts, all the intense emotions, but I can in some lucid moments during this episode say, “Oh, that’s what really happened. This isn’t as bad as it seems. My brain is lying.” And even if just twenty-four hours later I am back to screaming in my car and convincing myself that everyone hates me, there is a win in every minute that I can remind myself these are symptoms, not my whole identity.

I know this won’t always be the case. Medication and therapy help, but they’re not a cure, there is no cure. I won’t always have these moments of self-awareness. Tomorrow I might regress, or crash, or God knows what. I know that regardless of any of this, that I am someone who cares and loves deeply and authentically. Nothing will strip me of my empathy and compassion for others, or my sensitivity and my desire to make others feel seen and heard. This condition can take plenty from me and it quite often has. But it can’t siphon away my values or my humanity. It can’t take my soul.

So, I think that might be the gift. Not the illness itself, but the sometimes-blessed awareness of what it can’t take from us, if and when we are lucky enough.