Bipolar Days and Nights
Three days ago my psyche switched from the black goo of depression into the bright light of mania. I love the first few days of a manic period. I accomplish more in 24 hours than I do during weeks and weeks of depression. And I mean 24 hours because I don’t sleep much and if I do, my mind is alive and vibrant and colored with amazing dreams or frightening, crazy nightmares from which I awake, race for pen and paper and throw it all up.
Today while my mania and I were driving I noticed a distinct difference in my perception of the world and how I move through it. I drive fast and rev up the RPMs and shift into 5th gear in the city passing the slow and elderly meandering along. I am the master of my world. I take a side trip on impulse, then afterwards I decide not to do what I’d originally left the house for. A young couple stride across the street at a green light as cars whizz by in both directions and I am driving 50 MPH in a 30 MPH zone and I’m 100 yards away and wonder if I can stop in time. Then they pause in the middle of the intersection and I remove the picture in my mind of their bodies flying into and up over the front of my car. I tsk-tsk, saying aloud, well, they must be drunk or on drugs and continue on my way. I notice a beautiful front yard garden; think, oh, they painted their house and that looks really good; look, there’s my mailman and give him a little wave — I feel like a bobble-head as my head swivels to and fro, flitting here and there. I roll through stop signs and speed up to avoid red lights. The thrill of the little risks I take invigorate me.
She knew she was able to fly because when she came down
She had dust on her hands from the sky, she said I touched a cloud
She felt so high, the dust made her cry — Polar Bear, Ride
I have quick-cycling bipolar, which means the mania may last a day, a few days, maybe a couple of weeks. Any bipolar can survive that and I can’t imagine one that would wish to continue longer than that. The manias that continue for more than two weeks become excruciatingly exhausting and at the end I fall into bed and sleep for sometimes 24 hours at a time, get up for a few hours, sleep some more…Rinse and repeat.
And then I have a few kind of even keeled days. I like these too. I would wish days like this for each and every person.
Then comes the blackness. It hits me in the face as if it’s happening for the first time. It’s like pain — I can’t remember how bad it was before. That’s a mercy — the not remembering. I don’t know how long it will be black; I only know that it will be longer, usually much longer than the manias or the even keel days. I spend a lot of time in bed, or staring vacantly at the TV or playing online games as the cat hairs float around and build up in the corners with the flow of the ceiling fans. I must force myself to take a shower and brush my teeth, sometimes succeeding, sometimes not. I am an expert dirty dish stacker. I can and do go two weeks sometimes without washing the dishes. Sometimes, I run out of spoons before I run out of dishes (paper plates are wonderful, aren’t they?) so I’ll just wash a few spoons. I never run out of forks. The tremor in my hands from my meds prevents eating with a fork. Not much makes it to my mouth. I miss having a dishwasher — at least you can hide the dishes away. The laundry piles up. I run out of underwear, towels, shorts. Let’s not even talk about my sheets.
I don’t turn my phone on. On really bad days I don’t even put my shades up — I hide inside like some hibernating bear. I am grouchy. I don’t leave the house unless it’s an emergency — like I have no bread, no milk, and the pantry is very low. In better days when I could afford it, I would order groceries online and have them delivered. That way I could keep my outside contact to a minimum because the black times are the most dangerous. It’s better for everyone that I stay squirreled away out of the public eye. When I do get up, I wonder what day it is. Is it Monday? Thursday? Is it 6 a.m. or 6 p.m.? There’s no order to my days — day is night, night is day. And on and on it stretches and I yearn for the mania. I am continually grateful that I am retired and do not have to maintain a schedule. I’m only responsible for my cat and he gets whatever he wants when he wants it because I couldn’t live without our nightly cuddles and his delightful range of kitty meows.
This is my experience of bipolar. If this piece seems fragmented, I apologize. Imagine, if you will, what it’s like to be in my brain. If you made it this far, thanks for reading.