Bipolar: when I am not myself

One of the more embarrassing parts of my disorder is the separation from who I used to be and what I used to be capable of compared to what I do now. It gives me new understanding of the expression “I’m not myself.” This means an entirely different thing when you have a mental health diagnosis.

That said, this post took several days to put together. During the writing, I even forgot how to “copy and paste” and use the shortcuts for looking up words while I write—something I do all the time. The cognitive connection was lost several times over two days, and I had to walk away several times. I win some and I lose some.

Today* was exceptionally difficult from the start, and I can’t discern a particular reason–other than my disease. My body and mind are sluggish for cognitive tasks because it’s distracted by worry. Depression is known to make chronic pain worse in some people. I wonder if I’m experiencing mirror neurons or empathic pain from the wars, tragedies, and injustices happening in the world.

When I say this, I get a double blink and I can tell I’ve crossed an invisible line where my husband stops nodding along and his face breaks into worry too. It doesn’t make sense to him.

My friends are supportive. They suggest the world is in distress. That there's still a pandemic going on, that there was a racially motivated mass shooting, that women’s rights are being torn from our grasp and many voices are being snuffed out by old men in suits. 

They say, “of course you’re depressed. Everyone’s feeling it.” And they are. And this is not to belittle anyone else’s discomfort, pain, or depression. I am just sharing the more private, and (I’ll use this word for lack of a better one at the moment) bizarre, and therefore embarrassing parts of my illness. Today I had two things to do: an appointment and the store. These are two things I used to be able to do during my busy day– after work, sometimes even after the gym or daughters’ extra curricular activities. But this is a big day which, in itself, sounds embarrassing when I used to leave the house at 6:30 am, teach all day, go to the gym, teach night classes, only taking off my shoes at 9:30 pm or so then settling down to read essays or prepare lessons for the next day—over and over again.

I Have The Sadness

I woke up with the sadness today. Now, this sadness was with me all day. And this is one way bipolar disorder is a real bitch. Even after being out of work for nearly a year, I still wake up at between 5-5:30 as if it’s a normal work day. I can usually go back to sleep and rise for the day around 6:30. Outside, gorgeous, yet I had a feeling of foreboding. It feels like grief. The feeling I’ve had in the past–before I was what they call clinically depressed–in the past before a funeral of a close friend’s spouse or parent. It’s a sadness for a friend and recognizing how their lives will be forever altered. It’s recognizing that I may need to do a few things to assist, but in reality my sadness is an extension of theirs and won’t affect the day to day life I lead.

My sadness does though. It permeates the whole house like vapor. I move through the morning like I’m moving through knee-deep split-pea soup.

I Have The Fear

I have anxiety first thing after the darkness. Why do I feel so sad? There weren’t any calls or texts yet. What if this feeling of foreboding is a premonition? I wonder if everyone I love is ok. Is Makenna ok? Should I call Storm? Nanny is elderly. Is today a death anniversary? I wonder if my friend is okay. Had she gotten the results of those tests last time we talked? She felt this way the day my mom died. Should I call her? Does that send more energy toward the bad if I do call her?

I wipe my face and try to suck it up and literally face the day.

I have coffee and debate connecting with my writing group. I am new to the space, and it took a lot of courage to enter a new virtual club. Now that I’ve joined it, I can’t tell if they want me there. I try to replay the last conversations we had or think about who read what story, but I can’t remember, so I can’t prepare to contribute. I’m afraid I’ll say something dumb, so I just listen. I can’t be sure if they really welcome me or are just being polite. I still don’t know.

I Rage Scream Over Nothing

I get showered while hating the water running on my body and get dressed for the day. I’ve cut my hair short because it was too hard to manage (I donated nine inches to kids with cancer: pic below). I change my pants once because my waistband is tight (more on weight issues in another post). I find the second pair has lint–I’m not vain–the lint is on the inside of the pants too. I can’t wear them due to texture issues. I growl in frustration.

I decide to do some chores to feel productive and hope it lifts my mood. As I do dishes, I splash water on myself and drop a dish in surprise. It clinks against the glasses that I left in the sink from last night.

I rage scream suddenly, then look around, and realize it is my roar. I look into the sink, and the dish isn’t even cracked. I’m the one who is cracked. I’m thankful my husband and daughter aren’t home. 

I go change my clothes again. Then I think…my husband and daughter aren’t home. Am I ok here by myself? How low—how bad—will it get this time? I’m still with it, right? I’m back crying in the kitchen when my daughter gets home from her errands. She’s had an emotional couple weeks, and I’m ill equipped to help her. This makes me more sad.

I Can’t Trust Myself

I think about the medications we have. We’ve become relaxed about the medicines since I’ve been mostly in my body. I probably won’t take all the medicines while in a dissociative state–I’ve now experienced this several times. If you’ve ever had too much to drink and been in a “gray out” like my connection that is in and out sometimes. Or a full-on blackout where you’re operating your physical body, but your mind isn’t capable of recording it. Well, that happens when I’m awake and while under the influence of stress. We put the more dangerous medications away where I can’t impulsively take them all at once.

When my husband is making lunch as I get ready to leave, I’m leaning over the kitchen sink crying again. He comes up behind me to give me a hug and I flinch him off. No, I don’t want a hug. No, I don’t want you to make me lunch. No, I don’t want take out. And also, I don’t really have time. I have this appointment. I’m trying to get ready for it, and I’m not sure if I’m ok. He asks if I need a ride. I say, “I’m not sure.”

I’m not sure he knows what I mean. I’ve already promised I won’t do anything consciously to take my own life, but it does sound appealing some times. I understand why suicides happen in batches, as they have been recently (resource linked below). I am literally jealous of those who got out early. Those who don’t have to wake up with the sadness ever again. I wish “the right to die” included coverage of this terminal and horrible disease. I know my children will miss me as they age, so some days that’s what makes me hold on. 

The worst part of it is looking at my family and asking them, “Do you hear that?” Just to make sure sounds are real in this time and space. And they say “yes, that sound is there” most of the time.

I’m Crying in Public, Again

So I think maybe I can go shopping before my appointment. I think that I’ll be fine when I get there, and the distraction will help. Keep busy. But as I get there, I realize the list is at home. I text my husband and ask him to text it to me. I am crying in the car because I am so dumb as to leave the list at home. At least I have time to be on time for my appointment. But when I go inside, I realize I need a mask. I don’t have one in my purse–but I always do.

My tears keep coming as I walk to the car for one. I put it on but I’m sweating from the heat, and my tears slide down inside the mask. My hair sticks to my forehead and the mask clings to my wet cheeks. I ask the clerk for a tissue, and he gives me two. I pay and sit.

During the appointment, I tell my physical therapist how well I’m doing as I collect myself. Talking distracts me from the sadness for a few minutes because I made so much physical progress over the few months in treatment. She has me lay down as she pushes and prods my shoulder. My eyes continue to drip even though I feel less sad in the moment as she’s encouraging me to breathe deep into my ribcage. I wonder if I took my medication today. I’ll have to double check my pill case when I get home. I’m doing so well with my shoulder that we close the case. One less medical provider—halleluiah to that!

Bipolar, PTSD and ME post about my mental health condition and therapies

Medical Saga Page posts about my physical health

I Don’t Know What I Am Doing

After my appointment, it’s raining. Then it’s not just rain, it’s thunder and lightning, cloud to ground strikes expected. I’m not going to load shopping bags in that weather so I drive home. When I get there, it’s sunny. This is where my friends would also joke that the weather is really bipolar today, and I would chortle a bit with them, but that was before. I grab the list and drive to the store. I don’t usually do the shopping by myself, but I used to. I look at the list, walk around, look at the list. I can’t hold the items in my head even for a few seconds. The content of the list evaporates as soon as my eyes leave it. I forget what I’m walking towards, so I stop and check the list again. Then I’m getting flustered. I keep thinking: you can do this. This isn’t even that hard. Don’t be such a baby. Get the stuff and get home. And I do. It’s slow, but I do it. I’m driving home from the store singing along to a song thinking “I can do hard things.” I open the car window. I feel the sun and wind.

But for today* I am the champion of my own life. Today I went out. Today I talked to people, I drove my car safely, I was able to get food for my family and take care of my health. I did the hard things. In that moment, I feel a tiny sense of pride that today I won.

Thanks for bearing with me and reading to the end :) Originally published as “When I Wake Up Something Else.” Check out the other content below in Collections.