It’s twenty after two in the morning and I’m nowhere even close to getting to sleep. Forty milligrams of melatonin and a big fat bowl and my fucking brain just won’t give it up. Petty arguments, some from years in the past, show up in the front of my mind and there I am, right in the middle of it again and you bet your sweet ass I’m mad as Hell.
If I was here alone I would be screaming with rage right now. After a while I’ll start to get a grip. There’s usually some crying involved in these events, so I have to wash my face. I have to do it in the kitchen because I can’t look at my face in the mirror. Great, just great.
This is going to pass, I know, but that’s not exactly good news. Just a couple weeks ago I was positively delightful. I had a smile for everyone I met and funny ass jokes just rolled off my tongue. It’s been like this before so I know what comes next: Bad news.
A bipolar 1 manic episode is nothing to sneeze at. I earned a second degree black belt to help improve my discipline and self control and it’s still, often as not, an all day battle to keep it together.
Going out of the house to run an errand can be a daunting task, sometimes because I don’t want anyone to see me like that and sometimes because I worry that I might invite the attention of law enforcement by frightening someone with my anger, which I will admit is a terrible thing to behold. And the best thing about it? Every time it happens it’s worse than the time before. I can medicate myself until I can barely speak, yipee-ki-yay.
Once I reach the giddy peak of this madness, the tipping point as people are fond of calling it, there will be a terminal velocity drop into a depression that will probably last until spring. I won’t feel anything, good or bad and I won’t care either. I’ll wear out my friends, some completely. They’ll give me their love and I’ll treat it like garbage on a vacant lot.
Having said all this, it may seem that, since I can predict it I should be able to control it. That’s what I thought.
I had a well-meaning friend who showed me “A Beautiful Mind” in an effort to show me just how simple it would be to overcome this problem. The movie itself was very entertaining but also very fictionalized. At the end, Russell Crowe (I can’t remember the character’s name) was able to thwart Special agent Ed Harris, FBI, by asking a student if there was anyone standing next to him, and when the student said no, Mr. Crowe simply ignored him. Problem solved, right? Not exactly.
I had to explain that our hero with the beautiful mind most likely suffered from paranoid schizophrenia, a completely different animal from bipolar disorder. If that’s how he dealt with it and it worked, good for him, but there are some serious differences.
In cases of paranoid schizophrenia, I am told, delusional behavior is fueled by ostensibly external elements advancing a fictitious narrative of either their importance or the idea that everyone is “Out to get them”, Grandeur and persecution. Whether it’s Agent Harris or Jesus speaking from the toaster (Real thing, no shit), the voices in that person’s head rarely speak the truth. I have no Jesus in my toaster, the voice in my head is me. He knows everything, pulls no punches and never, ever lies. You can’t think your way out of it any more than you can drive a roller coaster. Anyone who thinks otherwise should be glad they don’t know what they are talking about.
I’ve been to lots of group therapy sessions and support groups, enough to know that none of these conditions are preferable to any other, and having steaming gobs of horse shit like “Depression is a choice” or “Just ____” thrown in your face isn’t just degrading and insulting, it’s also infuriating and can put someone in a potentially dangerous situation. There is, unfortunately, no penalty for gaslighting or triggering a person with a mental health condition. The weight of that falls on us and the best we can hope for is to get a little compassion from the bench.
There is someone sniffing around out there, a mean-spirited sow of a woman, who enjoys berating me with the most vicious things she can think of. She likes to say posts like this are a pity pot, as if I need the sympathy of anyone. I have plenty of that for myself. Remember, the voice in my head never lies and he will be my ally, so your weak pejorative will have no impact on me. He’s the only one who gets to beat me up and he will straight up kick the living shit out of you for trying.
So, she-pig, take note: The last time you rained your verbal filth on me and walked away, that was because I am a decent and good hearted person. I am not that person right now and if you fuck with me, you will be bringing a butterknife to a swordfight. I will do what you do , only a hell of a lot better. I won’t care if I lie, I won’t care if everyone knows it. I won’t stop until I have hacked you up into a stinking pile of rancid, flyblown pork chops.
It has been my experience that people don’t really care if someone is being trolled, as long as it isn’t them. It is, however, an absolute kick in the pants to read, and I aim to please, so keep your shit covered snout out of my business.
Sorry about that, sports fans, that’s what they call mixed mood state. I guess I have beaten this poor dead horsey enough for now. It would seem I’m tired in more ways than one.