Look! A (Bi)Polar Bear!

Most of you that have been reading any of my rantings for a while are painfully aware (because I've mentioned it a few times. . .just a few. . right? Ha ha ha.) that I am diagnosed as bi-polar. You know that I am not medicated, most of the time; the reason for that being that I don't like to feel like a brain-eating Stepford Zombie. And you'll also remember that at one point, I was on one medication that was SO AWESOME, I had to get off of it. (It was so awesome because it strangled every thought process I had. I was two I.Q. points away from drooling. . .)

Because of some really good cognitive therapy, I've been able to get to a place where, yeah, I'm still a little crazy, but I am still me. Suuuure, I have to lock up the credit cards and inform the travel agent that even under threat of death, she is, under NO circumstance, to book ANY travel arrangements for me unless my husband calls and closes the deal. My mother still has to make me sit on my hands at antique auctions because, hey, there's NOTHING like a heated bidding war to get a manic feeling good. "Two hundred! YES! YES! Three hundred! YES! Wait. . .holy shit. . .was I bidding against myself?"

Anyway, there are so many levels to this beautiful, fun, horrible, ugly condition. When I read some of the things I've written while wearing the cape of a maniacal super-hero, I am amazed. "I wrote that? Damn!" And sometimes, when I read things that I wrote residing in the deepest, darkest jungle of my mind, I am touched by the pain and the beauty of it all. "I didn't write this. When did I write this? How could I've written this?"  

I'm not feeling very well today. I had a migraine, an argument, a huge disappointment and a little sadness. I tried to have some laughs, but. . .well. . .you know, they were all so f**king fake, they made Pammy Anderson's breasts look real by comparison. (Poor Pammy! Did anyone see her in the news during fashion week? Oh Lord! I want to give her a make-under so bad. . .and a hug.)

Anyway - what you're seeing above is the thought process of someone slipping into a different frame of mind. 

First, comes the melancholy.
Then, the mild paranoia.
Then, disorganized thinking (see above)
And, then, probably crazy, crazy thoughts running through my head at a very rapid pace. . .imagine the sound from an 8mm tape reel. . .cht cht cht cht cht cht cht cht cht cht cht cht.

I may make sense.
I may babble incoherently.
I might make a mess.
I might create something brilliant.
I might take the brilliant thing I create and set it on fire, tear it to shreds, dump it down a drain or bury it in the dirt.

And while I'm doing that, it will seem perfectly rational.

It's definitely not something as Lifetime T.V. For Women as "multiple personality disorder." I mean, I don't wake up dressed in hooker clothes, itchin' with crabs and $20 bucks in my pocket. But I will . . .kind of. . .forget myself. I'll do things and not really remember doing them. It's like. . .I'll do something so fast and not even think about it. I won't be doing it long enough to even leave an imprint of it on my brain. I'll get all foamy at the mouth and come home with a bag of books or clothes and then. . .

get home and look at all of the items in wonder. "I bought this? AND THIS? REALLY? Ewww!"

And who knows if I'll sleep tonight? I'll lay in bed, feeling like I have an itch that I can't scratch. I'll go to the couch and beg to fall asleep by the light of the television. . .waking to the glow of infomercials. It feels like one of those nights. And if it is, nothing that happens can be confrontational. . .or else I'll turn it into something dramatic and ugly and I'll scream and fight and maybe throw some things. Until I don't feel these intangible "symptoms," I'll have to stay out of movie theaters. . .because the last time I felt this way and decided to go ahead with my movie plans, I yelled and made that high school kid cry. He was making too much noise and being a smart ass when nice people asked him to quiet down. But I just snapped and said something snarky. . .immediately and innately knowing EXACTLY what to say to him to make him feel some pain. How did I know? I don't know. He had insecurity written all over his pimply, rude, loudmouthed face. 

ACK! THIS is what it's like in my head during times like this. It's dangerous and I have to be very, very aware of everything I do and say. Think ten times about what you're going to say before you speak. Take deep, deep breaths through your nose. Think of love. Think of puppies. Remember that you're a human being in the MIDDLE of all of this and not some lost alien walking around terrified. 90% of the thoughts in your head right now. The 10% that are real? Well, they'll still be there when you feel better.

And don't worry - this will pass. How soon, who is to say? These episodes are usually better than the low-points. . .the slow, cold, depressive episodes that suck every ray of light out of my soul; robbing me of the ability to even laugh. I don't like to write blogs when I feel this way because. . .well, I just don't. I don't feel that it makes much sense to anyone but me. But I said I'd keep this up. . .so here I am.

(Looking around.) It's early enough for me to take an Ambien and I think that's what I'll do. The more I settle into this weird brain fog, the more I doubt anything good and creative will come out of it. I think it's time for bed . . .whether I feel like sleeping or not.

Mwwwwwwwwwwah! xoxo