This is going to be long and might make me sound absolutely fucking crazy. I don’t know, but I gotta get it off my chest. <deep breath> Here goes nothing.
The first time anyone ever told me I was bipolar I was out for a run. It was probably about March or April in Spokane’s South Hill neighborhood. The sun had set but the air still held an edge of warmth and my lungs felt absolutely alive with the promise of spring. Actually - I felt alive everywhere. I had just moved from my aunt’s house to share an apartment with a women I had just met. We were training for a marathon together. As we were running that night and talking I told her that the feeling I was having was as if I had woken up from a long sleep and could finally breathe. It was time to write that book I always say that I’ll write and this marathon training was surely just a prequel for the Ironman to follow. I felt that I had so much that needed to be accomplished and was worried that the feeling of having been awoken might dissipate before I had a chance to finish. Her response was fairly immediate, “that’s because you’re bipolar.” My response was equally immediate,
“fuck you.”
I actually didn’t say “fuck you.” I’m too polite for that. I said nothing and instead spent the rest of the run and perhaps some time afterward stewing indignantly. I didn’t really know anything about what bipolar disorder was except that it was for people who were really fucking crazy. I was not crazy, ergo I was not bipolar.
But it bothered me nonetheless.
My first major depressive episode was when I was 19 and I had no idea what was happening. I was terrified because it felt like someone had drained all the color out of my soul and left me to huddle with all the worst parts of myself. I woke up in the morning exhausted before my feet hit the ground, spent all day feeling the weight of my own guilt before lying endlessly on the couch, drooling at the TV in the hopes that it would provide me with some relief from the demons in my own head. At the start of it I wrote often about how I was disappointing myself and my parents and how I could and would do better but after awhile I just sort of gave up. It was the summer after my first year of college and I was sleeping 13 hours a day.
Depression is relatively easy to spot if you’re being honest with yourself. Its opposite is not. By the time fall rolled around and school started again I was on antidepressants and seeing the first of many therapists. I had three or four sessions with the woman before she determined that I did not require therapy. After all a marvelous transformation had taken place. I no longer really required sleep. 3-4 hours a night did the trick and I used the spare time to do extra homework. I went to all of my classes, saw all my friends and felt like a rock star. Problem solved.
Fast forward to age 26. I was in the throes my fourth major depressive episode. I had learned by then that I could simply wait them out but it had been too long since I had been inspired to pull the shades to look at the sun or laughed out loud for any reason. It had also been two years since that night time run conversation and for the first time I pulled out my computer and Googled: ‘bipolar disorder.’Of course, when researching any illness on the internet the following is applicable...
The first time anyone ever told me I was bipolar I was out for a run. It was probably about March or April in Spokane’s South Hill neighborhood. The sun had set but the air still held an edge of warmth and my lungs felt absolutely alive with the promise of spring. Actually - I felt alive everywhere. I had just moved from my aunt’s house to share an apartment with a women I had just met. We were training for a marathon together. As we were running that night and talking I told her that the feeling I was having was as if I had woken up from a long sleep and could finally breathe. It was time to write that book I always say that I’ll write and this marathon training was surely just a prequel for the Ironman to follow. I felt that I had so much that needed to be accomplished and was worried that the feeling of having been awoken might dissipate before I had a chance to finish. Her response was fairly immediate, “that’s because you’re bipolar.” My response was equally immediate,
“fuck you.”
I actually didn’t say “fuck you.” I’m too polite for that. I said nothing and instead spent the rest of the run and perhaps some time afterward stewing indignantly. I didn’t really know anything about what bipolar disorder was except that it was for people who were really fucking crazy. I was not crazy, ergo I was not bipolar.
But it bothered me nonetheless.
My first major depressive episode was when I was 19 and I had no idea what was happening. I was terrified because it felt like someone had drained all the color out of my soul and left me to huddle with all the worst parts of myself. I woke up in the morning exhausted before my feet hit the ground, spent all day feeling the weight of my own guilt before lying endlessly on the couch, drooling at the TV in the hopes that it would provide me with some relief from the demons in my own head. At the start of it I wrote often about how I was disappointing myself and my parents and how I could and would do better but after awhile I just sort of gave up. It was the summer after my first year of college and I was sleeping 13 hours a day.
Depression is relatively easy to spot if you’re being honest with yourself. Its opposite is not. By the time fall rolled around and school started again I was on antidepressants and seeing the first of many therapists. I had three or four sessions with the woman before she determined that I did not require therapy. After all a marvelous transformation had taken place. I no longer really required sleep. 3-4 hours a night did the trick and I used the spare time to do extra homework. I went to all of my classes, saw all my friends and felt like a rock star. Problem solved.
Fast forward to age 26. I was in the throes my fourth major depressive episode. I had learned by then that I could simply wait them out but it had been too long since I had been inspired to pull the shades to look at the sun or laughed out loud for any reason. It had also been two years since that night time run conversation and for the first time I pulled out my computer and Googled: ‘bipolar disorder.’Of course, when researching any illness on the internet the following is applicable...
...but the description seemed pretty reasonable and specific. “People with bipolar disorder type II have never had full mania. Instead they experience periods of high energy levels and impulsiveness that are not as extreme as mania (called hypomania). These periods alternate with episodes of depression.”
There was also a self assessment. 1.) “Have you had episodes of clinical depression - involving a period of at least 2 weeks where you were significantly depressed...” Two weeks? Who are you kidding? I wish it only lasted that long. 2.) “Do you have times when your mood 'cycles', that is, do you experience 'ups' as well as depressive episodes?” Well yeah. Doesn’t everyone? 3.) “During the 'ups' do you feel more 'wired' and 'hyper' than you would experience during times of normal happiness?”
I thought back to a phone conversation I had with my mom back in college. I can’t remember what we were talking about what I do remember what it felt like. My skin was tingling. I was a little light headed. I knew that I should probably stop and let her intercede but couldn’t manage to slow down long enough. Finally I said,
“I’m having a good day today. Like, really good.” She responded,
“I can tell you’re really up. <pause> So... I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but do you ever think you have adult ADHD? You’re all over the map. Do you have a hard time concentrating?” My jaw dropped. No way. Obviously not. I mean - I wasn’t like that all the time.
I remembered a conversation with a co-worker who stopped me one day, took me a little aside and asked in all seriousness,
“are you high today? Like... something speedy? It’s totally cool if you are I just... I mean... it doesn’t seem like you.” I assured him that I wasn’t on anything but I’m not sure he was entirely convinced.
The self-test had more questions:
Please complete the checklist below, rating the extent to which each item applies to you during such 'up' times.
Feel more confident and capable: Yes
See things in a new and exciting light: Definitely
Feel very creative with lots of ideas and plans: Don’t lots of people have periods of creativity?
Become over-involved in new plans and projects: Yeah, but lots of people over-commit.
Become totally confident that everything you do will succeed: I’m a confident person!
Feel that things are very vivid and crystal clear: Well... Yes.
Spend, or wish to spend, significant amounts of money. NO
Find that your thoughts race: I guess so. Um. Actually, definitely.
Notice lots of coincidences occurring: NO
Note that your senses are heightened and your emotions intensified. Definitely
Work harder, being much more motivated: Yes. I wish I could be like that always.
Feel at one with the world and nature: NO
Believe that things possess a 'special meaning': NO
Say quite outrageous things: What does outrageous even mean?
Feel 'high as a kite', elated, ecstatic and 'the best ever': Definitely
Feel irritated: NO
Feel quite carefree, not worried about anything. Yes
Have much increased interest in sex (whether thoughts and/or actions): I plead the 5th?
Feel very impatient with people: No! Except for sometimes...
Laugh more and find lots of things humorous: Yes. I wish I could stop myself.
Read special significance into things: NO.
Talk over people: Yeah... I get so that I can’t help it.
Have quite mystical experiences: NO. Never.
Do fairly outrageous things: Again with the outrageous.
Sleep less and not feel tired: Big time.
Sing: Only under my breath in public! What I do in my own home is my own business.
Feel angry: NO
I felt OK about it because I said ‘no’ to a bunch of stuff but when the score came back it said to talk to a therapist so I took another test. And then another. And then I did something I’ve come to hate doing and scheduled an appointment.
I’d like to take a break in our regularly scheduled programming to expand on just why I hate therapists so much. It took almost a month to get that appointment. It often does. I know that if I call 10 therapists that I can pay with my insurance then I’ll hear back from a maximum of four. Ever. I don’t know why that is. Are they disorganized? Busy? Have a full practice? Rude?
By the time I get those four people to call me back I invariably can only schedule with one of them and by then I’m so desperate to talk to someone that I’ll take what I can get. Then comes an assessment. They want to know whether I’m a drug user or an alcoholic, whether I was abused as a child or whether I’m suicidal. I understand the logical reason for needing to ask these questions. If you need counseling they need to know whether there’s something big right away. Of course, if I were suicidal I surely would have killed myself in the month that it took to get the appointment.
In that first session they assess for 50 minutes and then give you 10 to tell them why you’re there. After all the questions about big serious mental health issues my problem of “I can’t help myself from talking over other people” just doesn’t seem like a big deal anymore. I start to wonder why I ever came. Sure, there are months when I wear the same five outfits to work every week without washing them, but at least I still go to work. Even at my worst I still feed myself, hold down a job and pay my bills. People who don’t know me well would never know there was a problem.
The last 10 minutes of my session came. I told the women that I thought I might be bipolar and why. She nodded with big understanding eyes and told me that I was probably right. We made another appointment. She got sick. We made another appointment. She was still sick. We made another appointment and she asked me whether I would consider spiritual help of some kind. I never went back. Two weeks after our last session I bought my skates and I suppose you could say that I found my spiritual help after all.
Am I bipolar? I don't know. I'm sure I could go to 10 different mental health professionals and find at least a few who think so. Inevitably what will happen now is my mother will read this post and furiously Google at least a few medications and/or therapies I could try. MOM: I've Googled. You don't have to. Please don't push me on this.
I think one of the hard parts about mood disorders (and hence the reason for the giant public post) is trying to help other people understand what's going on with me. Humans are social animals - we want to help each other. When I tell people that I'm down I usually get a ton of suggestions on how to make it better. In Seattle that means Vitamin D and sun lamps no matter how many times I reiterate that this is not seasonal affective disorder. I'm sad in the summer as often as any other time of year. People want to probe me for a reason for the mood swings but are unhappy with 'brain chemistry' as an answer. Folks want for my moods to relate to things that have happened in my life when they often don't. I sit and listen to the many proposed solutions and have to bite my tongue to keep from saying, "I've been dealing with this for almost a decade. You've been listening to it for five minutes. Why do you think that you have a solution I haven't thought or heard of?"
The thing is, people can help me. I didn't realize just how much until this last time when my friend Riley wouldn't leave me the hell alone. When I get depressed I feel bitchy and then don't want to subject anyone to my presence. It becomes a self perpetuating cycle pretty quickly. Two winters ago when I locked myself up in my house Riley just kept coming around. She pulled me out to go dancing and forced me to have an awful time. She came over and hung out with me while I painted my house. She called me on the phone just to talk. Even though I must have been horrible to hang out with she made me know that I was still her friend. It meant the world to me, then as now.
When I talk about it to you, my friends, what I'm really doing is giving you a heads up - not asking for advice. If I seem weird to you it's because I feel weird. When I'm off my game I have a hard time judging how I come across to others so I'm counting on you to give me a little slack. If I'm suddenly uncharacteristically self-conscious or self-doubting its because I'm afraid for that moment when you tell me just to act normal, and the moment that comes after that when you decide I'm not the friend you thought I was. I still get to have regular feelings too which means that I can have a bad/great week or month but not be depressed or hypomanic. I'm not sure what it looks like to you but I do know what it feels like on the inside. You have to trust that I'll tell you what's going on.
That was cathartic for me. Thanks to anyone who's still reading. Since I promised I'd let you know, you should know that I woke up this morning feeling fairly awful and kinda nuts. I think it's probably just because I've been off skates for so long with the ankle injury and I'm going to try not to follow it down the rabbit hole. I'll let you know how it goes.
XOXO
<posted on 2.25.13>
<posted on 2.25.13>
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