Bipolar and me

trigger warning: self harm and generally sad stuff lol

I was 23 years old, sat on an old sofa in the office of a psychiatrist in my hometown, after we greeted, her demeanor turned sympathetic, she explained to me that I had something called bipolar disorder, there were two types, and I had type 1. Bipolar 1 is characterized by long periods of something called mania, and long episodes of deep depression. Bipolar mania in bipolar 1 patients is generally more severe and lengthy than patients with bipolar 2, who only experience hypomania, which lasts in shorter spurts and generally does not enter into psychosis. Bipolar depression in general, is much more intense and lengthy than major depression and often lasts for months at a time, patients are usually haunted by constant suicidal ideation and feelings of hopelessness, sometimes unable to get out of bed or do simple tasks such as showering or feeding themselves. In the course of 10 or 15 minutes, I learned that my anxiety and constant belief that I was in harms way, was actually a symptom of psychotic episodes brought on by mania. I learned that my ineptitude to hang on to money was a symptom of my illness. I learned that the loss of opportunity because of my inability to get out of bed, my inability to answer the phone, take the trash out, or shower, was a part of my depression. When I was first diagnosed, I felt relieved, having more of an understanding of the pain and confusion I had been dealing with all of my life felt exhilarating, early on I had hope that medication and therapy would bring me to a state of healing, but there is no real cure for bipolar disorder, it just goes on and on and on.

A common misconception about bipolar illness is that patients cycle through moods from one day to the next, a few weeks after I was diagnosed, a boyfriend of mine ended our relationship on the grounds that my bipolar made me “up one day and down the next”, but the reality is that I’m up for months at a time, and down for even longer. Feeling misunderstood is commonplace for people with mental illness, often times when I speak about my depression, hiding the cuts on my arms and holding the tears in my eyes, I am met with “oh man, me too, who isn’t depressed with the state of the world these days?!” Little do they know, I haven’t showered or left my bed in weeks, sometimes months. In the past, when I’ve shared my diagnosis with a new friend for the first time, often they say “you know I always wondered if I was bipolar because I feel up and down sometimes” as if the stress of a corporate job compares to rapid cycling through various forms of psychotic episodes. Within my psychotic episodes, I come to believe in many things that are not there, I once found myself laying in fetal position on the floor of a motel room in Joshua Tree, California, watching little brown creatures peak out from the shower curtain, sometimes I believe I’m being watched or followed, crawling to the window of my kitchen to crouch down and peak outside where the perpetrator awaits me, sometimes I believe people are conspiring to ruin my career or relationship, and don’t get me started on the bedbug phobia (even typing the words sends me into a bad state).

Describing depression feels impossible, I’m in such a haze during my depressive episodes, it’s hard for me to remember that time. Recently, I spent six month straight under a heating pad, crying constantly, watching reruns of “Girls” and reading mystery novels while I chain smoked American Spirits, it was so bad, my loved ones gathered around me for an intervention, where in I was told I must do something to get out of it. So, I started a medication that makes me have tremors and restless legs, but hey! I don’t want to die anymore! Mania is like a wave of mass annihilation that I ride until everything in my wake is completely destroyed, I spend copious amounts of money that I do not have, piles of packages begin arriving at my doorstep, I have auditory hallucinations, and sometimes shadows turn into moving figures, I can’t sleep more than a few hours at night, and electricity runs through my body, in the past, I would douse my excess energy in white wine and call every person I ever met on the phone all night long, I say things that I do not mean, I do things I do not mean, I fall in love with strangers, I fall out of love with soulmates, I become paranoid people around me are using me, taking advantage of me, until one day I find myself spinning and spinning so fast, there is nothing left to do but fall down.

The backlash of having this illness is so prevalent within my career, my anxiety over staying in hotel rooms alone, combined with risk that a lack of sleep imposes on my state of mind, makes touring challenging. More and more, as I come to understand how my illness works and what triggers it, I find it difficult to be outside of my comfort zone, I am so scared of being catapulted into a manic episode or a depressive state, I put up a lot of boundaries around me, but lately, I worry there may be too tight of a perimeter surrounding me. I don’t like being in beds that are not my own because I worry I will get bed bugs, I worry jet lag will send me into psychosis the way it has time and time again, I need at least 10 hours a sleep a night in order to not be sent into a bad state, and the endorphins of performing send me into a crash the same way that copious amounts cocaine or alcohol do for normal humans. I am so incredibly fragile when I exit my safe space, I become a total burden to the people around me, crying backstage, crying at the air-b.n.b, physically shaking over the idea someone will break into my hotel room (sometimes I stack spoons and cups on the door handle to work as an alarm system), requiring constant comfort and companionship from members of my band, I worry often that I am an exhausting person to be around, because it feels so incredibly exhausting to be me.

You may think that the symptoms of my illness are what cause the most suffering, but the truth is, it’s the lack of uncertainty that I have towards my future, never knowing when it all will strike again, there is no way for me to fully trust myself, to trust that I can handle any situation that is thrown at me, that I am prepared for tour, or the grocery store, or next weeks schedule, because within my bipolar illness, within my symptoms, I lose myself. So, I take my medicine, and complain to my therapist, and go on my walks, and get a good nights sleep, and hope that the monster living inside of me doesn’t come out to play.

most uncertainly

-A