Depressed, anyone? Fine
opener, isn’t it? Well it’s that time of
year for me. I’m actually in decline, to
be more specific. My particular issues
follow a seasonal pattern, and as my body and mind feel the shift in weather to
my favorite season, a dichotomous dread descends as I begin to feel the
depletion in mental capacity. I am
fatigued continually, and my outlook has begun to darken. The descent is what I call a progressive
shift, and I “get” to experience mixed state once again, something I have been
told over the years by diagnosticians is rare in bipolar II. Mixed state is a combination of mania and
depression. I experience it in the
spring as I shift from depression to mania and again in the fall from mania to
depression. The experience in spring is
different as I experience the relief of increased energy, though I am more irascible
and aggressive.
In fall the state is an ebbing of energy and an onslaught of
dark thoughts…and there is fear. Fear of
what is to come. There is an urgency to
finish things up during this time, because I know once I land firmly in the
land of Eeyore, I will no longer be as productive. Everything slows and living becomes painful
with producing that much more so. The
agoraphobia becomes more pronounced, and my sense of isolation is equaled only
by the terrible fear of being around people and different environments.
When I made the decision some time back to not be completely
anesthetized with medication, it was with the knowledge that I would have to
combat the seasons of my illnesses every year and with all I had. And I can promise, every fall, it takes all I
have to make it through the season and into the dark world of depression that
lasts from mid October to June. There is
an overwhelming sense of loss that comes with the shorter days and cooler
weather. I find I struggle to keep up
with conversations and pretty much everything else I seem to have had no
trouble maneuvering in August.
I find I am panicking at the slow pace my dissertation is
being produced, because I need desperately to reach a certain point in order to
be able to stay on track to completion. It’s not an unrealistic goal. It’s a necessary goal. And it is very difficult to function in
academic circles at the level I am at and be able to express, “Hey my brain is
about to malfunction on an incalculable level, so could we just cut to the
chase here?” It is just not acceptable
to cry “insanity” at the doctoral level.
It’s not a matter of
my perfectionism or even my annoyance with process. It is a necessary thing for me to get as much
accomplished while I still can. I find
consolation when I tell my mom my sense of urgency and my fear floats over the
phone line. She confirms to me that, no,
this sense of urgency to get as much accomplished as I can, is not
misplaced. In my world it is vital that
I get as far as I can before mental function is depleted down to a near flat
line.
I have friends who are doing the school thing and working full
time. For me, though, my full time job
is controlling the mental malfunction that is resultant of mental illness and
has the power to wipe out jobs, relationships, and even life. I have chosen doctoral work as my second
endeavor to functioning relationships, because on an intellectual level,
academics are quite easy for me overall, but that is only with the
understanding that I must function within the time line of mania, mixed state,
severe depression, and mixed state again.
Yeah, yeah. So many
have it worse. I know that. But I’m in the throes of my own little
nightmare, and I know that it exists because I have weathered it continually
for over 20 years. I have seen my friends try and fail, often
losing their lives. And, while there is
always a worse situation, the knowledge does nothing to equalize my own or even
give enough perspective. When you are
drowning, seeing the person next to you drowning a little quicker does nothing
to negate the brevity to your own situation.
Most of the time I can circumvent the mindset and come round to a more
balanced view, but this time of year, I’m just hanging on…Surviving my mind and
hoping come next spring, everything will still be relatively intact and
somewhat resemble the way I left it before I submerged.
My sisters, my
brother, and my parents have learned to dance with me on this. They are so very uplifting. They validate my opposition, and they help me
find the shore line when I can’t see it.
Their acceptance of what I have, how it changes me is so helpful for
me. There is no one harder on me than
me. I don’t need anyone to berate me or
tell me I have a bad attitude or that I am not cutting it. I do that plenty for myself. They love me, love me, love me. My husband is so willing to learn this dance
too and is so supportive of me, often pointing out where I can make adjustments
and just being an overall rock. So, as I
am coming full circle with this thing, I will posit that if I have to go under
into the black night yet again, as is indicative with every year until the end
of my time here on earth, I have no better a team than what Abba has provided. They are willing to learn with me, and that
has made the journey bearable.
As a writer, I am constantly straddling the line between
authenticity and holding back. Where is
the line? In the academic world, I write
very clinically and concisely. Logic is
the order of the day, which is why mental illness is a problem in this arena…When
it flares up, logic is the first to take a hike. But in the world of creative writing, I have
the option to express and be vulnerable.
Sometimes, I offend. Sometimes I’m
too messy, and it makes people uncomfortable.
Sometimes I’m sappy and redundant, but sometimes I say it just right,
and I hold out for those moments. If
there is one person who connects with what I write, who is in a place where he
or she feels all alone, and finds simpatico in what I write, it’s worth
it. It is not easy to share thoughts and
experiences for censure and caprice, especially someone like me who is very
private, but I have been compelled for years to blow the top off perceptions
about mental illness, especially depression, and get people looking at it for
what it is.
So, bare with me friends.
Life is a series of unconnected puzzle pieces I am trying to walk
on. The cracks are chasms and the
overall picture unclear. But I will come
back around. I am so beloved. I am most fortunate of women. How could I expect to be more blessed than to
be loved by the wonderful and incredible group of people who love me. I keep going because of them. I keep persevering; because at the end of the
day, I love them too much to hurt them…I must remember that.
L
