Dear Brain, You're an Asshole

Last Sunday, my boyfriend got down on one knee and asked me to be his partner for life. I was not surprised. We had talked about this day since about one month into our relationship. When you know, you know, and all that.

Earlier this evening, my now-fiance lifted me up under the armpits so that I could stand and walk to the bathroom, because I went from 100 to 0 in a matter of days. I am in the midst of a post-breakdown depression. I don't know how long this one will last. I know that typing right now takes great effort. I keep writing a sentence, reading it, staring at the screen, then trying to write another sentence.

I am exhausted.

When people think of triggering events, or at least when I do, I don't think of positive things. I think of being reprimanded at work, getting into a small altercation with a friend, something that tips me from being "Stable" on the spectrum to worse than stable, or slightly better than stable. It's clear to me that this time, the triggering event was Justin's proposal.

Brain, you are an asshole.

I am not depressed about getting married. Far from it. I am elated. I was so happy, I started immediately planning. I have been reading wedding blogs all week. I close my eyes and see wedding dresses. I was planning the bridal party. Figuring out a date. Thinking, thinking, thinking that turned into obsessing, obsessing, obsessing. Signs started to show themselves. My excitement, my pure and good and wholesome feeling of "yay", had gained momentum. I'm getting better at recognizing.

Always a song in my head. Always wanting a drink in my hand. Wanting to go out, wanting to be social, thinking, thinking, thinking, talking, talking, talking. Losing sleep. Lying in bed until 2 or 3 or 4 am, while Justin soundly slept beside me, not able to turn off the thoughts. Having a broken spigot in your bathroom is annoying. Imagine having one in your head. There is nowhere for the overflowing thoughts to spill. They just collect, build up, create pressure. It's not sustainable. Mania is euphoria, for me, in the early days, but it is not sustainable. Fireworks are beautiful but they are essentially just controlled explosions. That's what it's like in my head, when I start to feel good.

I trust no good emotion because I know where it can lead.

I knew it was happening about two days in. I said to Justin "I bet I'll have a breakdown by the end of the week."

And I was right.

I left work today due to a bipolar episode for the first time in around 8 months because I could feel the walls of my sanity falling like Jericho in my head. I described it to a friend as feeling like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, and the only thing keeping me from falling over was gusts of powerful wind from below. It's a cold and terrifying and terrible feeling, feeling your stability melt away. For me, it's like cupping water in my hands, and watching it slowly slip through the cracks. Try as I might, I can't hold onto the water forever. I will always try and scoop more up. I don't want to give up. But I am so tired.

I took a Xanax at work and waited, and realized that it took the edge off, but not nearly enough. I was falling apart, frozen at my desk. An elephant comprised of guilt and my own expectations had taken up residence on my chest. How dare I miss a day of work for something as silly as bipolar disorder? Were my arms broken? Was I have a heart attack? Couldn't I just take some deep breaths, and just get over it?

 No thought, no focus, just a heavy awareness of my own breath, my heartbeat, I was physically okay. Except, I wasn't, because bipolar disorder lives in the physical organ of my brain.

I walked to my car in a daze, freezing in the warmth of March's first sunny day. Just. Keep. It. Together.

I sat, hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white, and the first sob wrenched through my chest like a cannonball. They kept coming. Tears washed mascara into my eyes and they stung and burned. My heart throbbed in my ribcage, each beat seeming to say "you're alive, you're alive, you're alive." Every sob seemed to mourn that fact.

"Here lies Morgan's stability. Aged 8 months. Rest in Peace."

When I was younger and I would cry, my mom would tell me to smile at myself in the mirror, because that made crying seem impossible. I looked in the mirror, tried to smile, and watched my face crumple.

I went home, laid on the couch, tried to read, and slept. I slept for hours. I am still tired.

I am so tired.

I am tired of not trusting my feelings because I don't know what they will lead to. I am tired of medication making me feel forgetful even if it fixes almost every other problem. I am tired of bearing the knowledge that I will sometimes be stable, but never be cured.

I am so, so tired of people assuming that I am not doing everything I can to get better. That I want this.

I attached a picture to this so that maybe people will understand. This is what bipolar disorder can look like. This is what it looked like for me today. This is what it's like to have the best thing in your life trigger an episode that leaves you unable to pick  yourself up off of the couch yourself.

Brain, you are an asshole.