The Shift

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