Just Feeling A Little Bipolar, That's All

I debated about writing this out, and we will see if I have the stamina to stay put long enough to do it. Inviting people into this area of my life is always a risk, and something I have kept closely guarded. Letting the world know that you have a mental illness is like handing them a loaded gun to shoot down any good thing you love or will ever attempt. It makes everything you do or say suspect as it is possibly the result of nothing more than a sick mind, and on days like today that is far more evident to me than I would like it to be.

It all started about three days ago when I realized that nothing was up to my standards, and I do mean nothing. The sky wasn’t even the right shade of blue, fall is around the corner with its cooler temperatures that I detest, and I kept having to fight the urge to shred all my clothing as I suddenly deemed them all to be nothing but trash. Only some small rational corner of my mind keeps me from doing that now as I know that there are not enough funds to buy new things, and that thought makes me seethe with resentment.

Nothing is exciting enough or calming enough, and I fight the urge to scream. No words, just a gut ripping cry of protest against everything that is so very wrong. I am on the verge of tears every second. I hover there like a person clutching a toilet knowing that if they will just go on vomit they will feel better, but dreading the act so much they cannot allow themselves to do so.

I cannot stop shaking. My whole body is twitching with an undirected energy that refuses to be focused onto anything constructive without an intense effort. I have paced around the yard five times since I began typing this because I thought of half a dozen things I should do. I have accomplished none of them. The thought of doing the daily chores is physically painful, and my mind is running in loops trying to figure out ways to avoid doing what I know I should do.

I keep telling myself that today will be the worst of it and tomorrow I will begin to climb out of this pit. I have to because tomorrow I have to go back to work, be in front of people who are expecting me to behave a certain way. And I will do it. I always do. Years ago I pretty much perfected the art of faking it. I can be jabbering to myself the entire car ride to my place of employment, pondering all sorts of dangerous options for my life, crying with the physical pain of doing what I must, and then slap that smile on as I step out of my car. I will move among the people with my voice only slightly more animated than normal, and the only major shift they will even suspect is the fact I am far more complimentary than usual. Compliments, I discovered, keep most people happy and less confrontational, and the last thing you want out of me when I am in the middle of these episodes is a confrontation.

Oh, don’t worry. I have a leash on the real crazy. I only let it out when I am alone, or with people I trust absolutely. If most of you called me up right now, you would never know that it lurks just below the surface. The only clue you would get is the fact I might throw in a few more inappropriate remarks than I usually do, or my vocabulary is little more “colorful” than usual. I would just suggest that no one back me into a corner, because even I don’t know what I would do then.

I am considered to be “high functioning” with my bipolar because I can see all this. I can tell you what I am feeling, thinking, and I can tell you all the reasons why it is wrong or out of balance. I can still make choices based on what I know, and I can combat most of the rationalizations that my mind keeps spitting out at me in an attempt to vindicate how I feel. I know that greatest danger to myself and those around me is to start believing those lies and allowing myself to act on them.

Not that I always want to. There is a part of me, a deep dark scary part of me that keeps whispering that to believe the rationalizations would be freeing. The scary parts tell me that going into the camper right now and breaking every last plate and dish would feel amazing because I would no longer have to look at those very serviceable items I despise for being so colorless. The scary part tells me that I would only be exercising my rights as an adult to go and buy a fifth of whiskey and guzzling it down with some sour mix. The scary part says go dancing at eight in the morning without my husband who is too busy working, and to take all the credit cards and buy that hot tub I’ve been wanting. The thing is, it doesn’t feel scary. It feels tempting and seductive, full of promise and fun.

So I fight it. I tell myself all the reasons I need to stay the course. Stay here in my home, busy myself with projects, and if they can’t be productive at the very least choose the least destructive. I keep reminding myself of what is important, what will be important tomorrow (or next week), and what I know to be true even if it feels so incredibly fake right now. I fight the irrational anger that comes when I tell the scary part it does not get to dictate my choices, and I pray that this will pass quickly before the scary part becomes too loud and I can no longer hear the truths I keep repeating to myself.

A typical blog post takes me anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour to write. This morning it took three hours and multiple circuits of the yard to get this out. I am actually rather impressed, for while writing is one of my typical coping mechanisms it is rarely something I can do at this particular stage of an episode. 

Photo from Photopin