Hard Hit

July 16, 2019


I have never felt more bipolar than in the last couple of days. I have truly felt the swing from manic to depression in a few days. One day everything was bright and sunny. I thought I was going to write the next best thing in literature. I thought it was going to be great.


Then, I slept for 13 hours and woke up in a haze. I found myself kinda down, but not super down, maybe a little air let out of the tires. I did some writing. I found a little focus. I felt a little sorry for myself. I tried to steer my mood back on track.


Today, I spiraled out of control into hysterics. I sobbed and sobbed the snot sob of all sobs. I texted my friends asking forgiveness for having put my “book” in front of them. I felt inauthentic. I felt a fraud. I felt stupid and embarrassed.


I just cried uncontrollably for hours. I wasn’t necessarily depressed but I was sad. I was upset that I didn’t see that I was manic for most of the summer. I registered two days of mania on my chart. That’s all that I noticed around the Fourth of July. I was buzzing then but didn’t look at the rest of my behavior too closely.


I did mention it to my doctor when I saw him the month before that something was off. I couldn’t place my finger on it. I knew my mood was off but I didn’t know what it was. I was sleeping a good amount, at least six to eight hours a night.


Hypomania didn’t seem like it was on the rise. The obsession of the book should have been the key. All I did was eat, sleep, breathe and talk about my book and writings. I haven’t done anything else all summer. My summer is gone and I have done nothing but write. I spent all my time in front of this computer. It was mania.


I feel deflated. I was a helium balloon a few days ago, full and floating. Now I’m what’s leftover after the party has been done for a few days. I’m shrunken up and fallen to the floor, no longer flying high. I’m on the ground with the dirt and the bugs. I feel low and dirty.


My mood hit me hard and fast late in the morning. It hit me how stupid it was to invest all this time into this “book”. It might be okay for a blog, but who would want to read the diary of a manic madwoman? I just cried heaving sobs.


I sent out mass apology texts to everyone. I was so embarrassed by the thought of what I had done. Most sent back, not to worry about it. It doesn’t stop the utter shame of what I’ve done. The embarrassment that I feel. The lack of self-control I had while in the delusional state of mind of grandiose thinking that I’m a great writer. Some sent some encouragement to keep writing, but it’s hard to hear that when you feel so bad for being sick.


A few days ago, life was great. The summer had been wonderful. The house refi went well. The house got cleaned and redone. The cabin work went smoothly. The relaxing at the cabin has been relaxing. Writing has been going good. All of this, I thought was the perfect summer, only to find out that it was tinted rosy in the guise of a manic episode.


It only appeared to be good because I was manic. It was so great because everything is great when you’re manic. Everything is more beautiful when you’re manic. The music is louder. The colors are brighter. The smells are stronger. Beauty is more beautiful.


All of this was taken away by that 13 hour sleeping episode. I woke up and a dullness edged the frame of my vision. The shiny halo of sun dimmed low. The real darkness of feeling the effect didn’t hit until this morning. The reality check that I had wasted my time and the time of others this summer by making them read sixty plus stories about me and the antics of my childhood.


The dream of being a writer crushed by the reality of today. Yesterday, it was so real that I could be a writer. Today, the reality is the reality. It’s just a blog. It’s nothing special. There is no magic. There are rainbows because of the rain and sun, not because of the little people. The shine has worn off and the harshness is a cold reality.


There will be more writing, but I don’t know what it will look like under the guise of “normal”. Will the creative brain be able to handle “normal”? Will my upped meds even allow me to form cognitive sentences that make sense?


I have one dream. I dream that I can stay healthy and stable without mood swings. I dream that I can feel emotions without feeling them too deep that it makes me want to drown or soar. I dream that I can do a project and not spiral out of control with it, put it away when it’s done. Small dreams for some, impossible dreams for me.

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