**DISCLAIMER: This is a post about how awful mental illness is, not about any feelings toward Australia. Australia has been lovely to me! My brain has not.
Good evening from Australia!
When I decided two years ago that I was finally going to make Australia happen, the unthinkable, the unfathomable for someone who had dreamed of it for 13 years, I planned. I planned extensively. I saved, pulling every chunk of extra cash I could into my savings account. Every commission check I got while I was in the position I made the most money in went directly into my savings account for two years. Through my mother passing away and my savings account suffering so I could see her before she went (of course, I don't regret this), through several car repairs, roommates leaving, insane water and sewer bills, unexpected expense in general, I never gave up (though I wanted to). In July, I started seeing a fantastic, loving, caring, better-than-me-in-every-way man, and things got far more serious far more quickly than I ever thought would happen to me. The only time I considered postponing the trip as seriously as I ever did, was because I didn't want to lose him. This had been the dream, in the back of my mind, for years. Through high school, college, terrible relationships, death, diagnosis, this was the dream. So I planned.
When I purchased my plane ticket in August, I started to plan aggressively. I downloaded a countdown app on my phone. I started saving even more money than I had previously. I made sure my ducks were in a row. Travel insurance. Checking with my phone company about coverage. And finally, with two weeks to go, I planned obsessively. Checklists, checklists, checklists. Obsessively weighing my suitcase. Obsessively measuring my carry on and personal item, because just once wasn't enough. Three times wasn't enough. Almost backing out several times out of fear, financial investment being one of the only reasons I didn't. And of course, there was The Dream.
The reason for the dream is fairly layered and multi faceted and complicated. When I was in middle school, I had very few friends. I'm not sure why. I'm sure a lot of it had to do with my broken household, that led to some unsavory behaviors in my early adolescence. I couldn't really relate to many of my peers. We were fairly poor, and kids could be cruel. My father had shared with his daughters his love for the literature of J.R.R Tolkien. When I was in middle school, the first film was released. I was swept away. (Before any of you correct me and say Hey, that was filmed in New Zealand. I know. Wait for it.). I've always been a bit of an obsessive person (see above re: measuring suitcases). So I was obsessed. I took to the Internet to try and teach myself a bit of Elvish (Quenya, if you must know). Somehow, I ended up on an MSN message board, back before even Instant Messaging was REALLY the thing, and I found some boards of people writing fan fiction, back and forth, with their characters going on adventures. I immediately dreamed up an elf named Nevtellumaien (I'll never forget how to spell her name) and joined in the fun. This was when my relationship with my mother was particularly strained, and I was having issues socially at school, and this community became a sort of escape for me. I loved the stories we would tell, and eventually we did add each other on MSN Messenger, and talked almost every day. We talked about boys, life, school, Lord of the Rings, everything. Myspace happened, and then Facebook, and I've managed to keep in contact with two of the people I met through those boards, and one fellow I met through them, because I needed someone else to talk to. All in all, a kind of amazing, one of a kind (at least back then) friendship that was altogether unexpected. Lauren, the woman I am staying with now, was the one I stayed the closest with for years. Our relationship came and went, as did our ability to communicate, but she was always there ready for a conversation. All of these people were Australian (well, one had moved from elsewhere when we started speaking). And so, when things were particularly bad with my mom in my first year of high school, I started dreaming of a land far away where I could be as far as possible from the conflict, see some spectacular sights, and meet these friends who had become a big part of my life over the last year or so. The first time I started saving for Australia, it was in a K-Swiss box in my bedroom in the basement, where I rolled up my extra money (ha!) and stuck it in. I had gotten up to roughly 300 dollars when I crashed my mother's car in a school parking lot while visiting my dad, and I came home to all but 40 of my hard saved money gone.
Needless to say, this has been a dream for a long time, rooted in friendships that meant a lot to me as a teen, because I didn't have many other people to talk to. My older sister had a great group of close friends, and I always felt like I had no one to talk to. Somewhere around when all of this was happening, I started to manifest symptoms of what was misdiagnosed as depression, that I now understand were early signs of bipolar disorder.
Before I left Chattanooga, my psychologist and I discussed the reality that it was possible I would end up in an episode, whether full blown or just experiencing symptoms more sharply, while in a foreign country. I spoke to my psychiatrist afterward, and he agreed we should increase the dosage on one of my medications, as well as prescribe me something for as-needed anxiety. Obviously the goal was to need neither of those things. The reality, it turns out, has been it was very necessary. The issue with bipolar (well, there are many) is that so many of the symptoms are rather insidious, and come out of nowhere. Small interactions can "trigger" an awakening of these symptoms. For example, what they call "forced speech" or "rapid thought". These, for me, often occur simultaneously. Today, after hiking six miles in the beautiful Blue Mountains, I had a misunderstanding with a friend back in the States that was, admittedly, my fault. A "normal" person would apologize once, let it go, and move on with their day. Bipolar patients can have extreme emotional reactions to things, and so I did. I freaked out (internally), then came the forced speech, the rapid thought, the paranoia of being hated. The symptoms that have plagued me since adolescence, that I am only now beginning to really control and identify and attempt to slow down. I felt sick. Humiliated. Down on myself. And I realized, I shouldn't have just been concerned about a "manic"episode, or mini episode, and I had greatly underestimated the power of a "Depressive" episode while overseas and away from my support group, several thousands of miles away, and several time zones away. I would have felt better had I been able to take my anxiety medication straight away, to stop the anxiety from taking over my brain completely, but I had left it back at Lauren's, where it was useless to stave off the symptoms. I took one when I got home, but now I am "in it", as Natalie Portman's mother in "Garden State" used to say. A normal person could brush it off, even my friend needing to take a break from chatting with me, because at the end of the day, it's not the end of the world. But to me, these interactions, they always feel like the end of the world. They almost always have. The things that trigger my breakdowns, like this one, are small. I once had a full blown meltdown, come-down from mania, because I left my debit card at home, and didn't realize until I was trying to pay at the grocery store.
This innocuous thing triggered a melt down so violent I spent two hours in bed, unable to stop crying, while my beautiful boyfriend held me and comforted me, convinced I'd be better off if I killed myself, the world would be a better place, my family would thank me, I wouldn't hurt anymore, and everyone wins.
Over a simple mistake, the simple act of being unable to pay at the grocery store, something so easily fixable, that in the moment, seemed insurmountable, and a tragedy. The grocery store didn't have it's feelings hurt, it's day affected, but my friends who deal with me often do. I become too much.
When I was planning for my trip, my great international adventure, I didn't not think to plan for what I would do, should something like this happen. I just assumed it wouldn't, or if anything cropped up, it would be manic in nature, and I'd ride the wave. I didn't consider that I could be in one of the most beautiful places in the entire world, and feel useless, horrible, entitled, idiotic, humiliated, or any other number of emotions and thoughts that fly through my head as if they're the starship Enterprise flying at Warp Speed. Add this in to my homesickness settling in, and it's a rough evening. Mania is terrifying, but makes a sunset tinged with euphoria makes the world, the natural beauty, electric. A depressive episode, not to be confused with clinic depression, robs me of the joy of that same sunset, making it feel like a lonely end to a lonely day in a lonely life. Regardless of how beautiful my life is at home. Regardless of the fact that I'm realizing my dream. So there is now not only the guilt and panic of the interaction I had this afternoon, there is the guilt that I was triggered by it, that I'm now in a deep, dark pit, that I woke my boyfriend up to discuss it, that I'm not better, that I can't shake it off, that I desperately want to, that I'm letting it ruin this experience of a lifetime. The truth is, no one "lets" an episode run it's course. They just do. They have a life of their own, the way a virus grows and multiplies, the way a cancer metastasizes across an entire body. My episodes, full blown or not, make me toxic to myself and those closest to me. Later, when I am feeling stable again, I'll look back and be able to clearly tell the emotions I felt at the time.
I want it to clear up quickly, and I hope it does. My medication has a great reputation for pulling people out of the Dark Place, as I call it (related note, when I'm like this, my room becomes my Depression Den.) Maybe I should have waited to take this trip until I was better at stabilizing myself regardless of my medication, but that can take years. It can take years for people with bipolar to become highly functioning.
There comes with this the added bonus of feeling like I'm blaming my behaviors on the bipolar when really I might just be a shit person. Sometimes, when I'm feeling like I feel now, I feel I'm just a shit person.
I didn't want my first blog post about Australia to be about something like this, but unfortunately, these things are uncontrollable. I can't just live in a bubble because I'm worried something might trigger a symptom or an episode. I am actively working in therapy on recognizing these triggers when they happen, and calming myself down, so these things don't evolve into what they are now: me, on my friends couch, in a bubble of chemical calm produced by an anxiety medication, that only barely shuts up the dogs barking in my head. The dogs barking that are saying I'm useless.
As far as the trip goes, I'm floored with the beauty of this country. The water at Manly Beach was only shockingly cold for a split second, likely due to the heat of the day. I'm sunburnt on my face and back and shoulders, a small price for the walk through Sydney. I've had my photo taken in front of the iconic bridge, the iconic opera house, the Blue Mountains. My hosts, Lauren and her partner, have been incredible and hospitable. If everyone in Australia is like this, the Southeast has a serious adversary when it comes to charm and hospitality. Tomorrow, we'll head to Wollongong beach for the day, and I'll bask in the sun of the beautiful beach, and hopefully, feel much better. Saturday, I'll meet up with another friend from yesteryear, and meet his lovely girlfriend. Hopefully, I'll think about how lucky I am to have been in a position for two years where I could save, where I could realize this dream. I'll thank the universe for my sunburns, for my tired legs, for the inevitable bruise on my ankle where a bearded dragon ran full tilt into me while we were bushwalking today (yes, seriously). These are all beautiful things. Hopefully this will be shortlived, and I'll reclaim some joy. This is a place to be joyful. This is the adventure of a lifetime. This was The Dream more than marriage or children was ever The Dream for me.
Bipolar doesn't take vacations. Wherever you go, there YOU are. My brain didn't become balanced because I crossed the International Dateline and into the future. My triggers didn't disappear.
But really, I wish they'd fuck right off, and let me fully immerse and enjoy this beautiful country without a feeling of dread and self hatred hanging over me. And no, I can't just "get over it." I would if I could. I can try, but it's exhausting. and I walked six miles today.
I miss my boyfriend, one of the only people who can help with these moods, even after having experienced them for only six months. I miss my dog. I miss the smell of my city. And it's hard to feel this way without those comforts that ground me, that say "you're home, you belong, you're loved." Today I'm a little heartsick AND brainsick. And I'm a bit too much.
Tomorrow will hopefully be better. And if it's not, I'll deal. But today was lovely, and I still feel awful.
Bipolar takes no vacations, but I'll fight like hell to kick it off of this one.
Thanks for listening.
