I am terrified of myself right now.
When I first began As the Pendulum Swings, I had started off with a post called, “To See If I Still Feel” which described a similar episode with self-injurous behavior that I blogged about recently in “Confessions of the Pain of Payment”. Soon after my original blog post, I described an incident which I thought was a mixed episode in “Shifting Gears”. It was the first time I had ever experienced both hypomanic symptoms and depressive symptoms at the same time.
Last night, I didn’t sleep more than five hours. I had taken three and a half milligrams of Xanax and 30mg of Temazepam. I should have been knocked flat on my back.
My brain was buzzing, ablaze with thought and compulsions. There was a sensation of vibration all throughout my body. I surveyed my kitchen and drearily thought, “My house is disgusting. It’s an absolute nasty, repulsive, filthy hut. I wish I could burn this place to the ground.” But that wasn’t my compulsion. I wanted more than anything to clean.
First, I showered and scrubbed myself raw with a luffah. Shampoo ran through my fingers and foamed as I clawed my scalp, three or more times. My quest continued in the kitchen. The skin on my hands was raw, red, and peeling as I ripped through the dishes. I meticulously wiped down every surface with Clorox.
It wasn’t enough. I gathered every piece of paperwork that had been piled up on my counter and threw it in a box. I set it atop a large laundry basket and hauled it up the stairs. Everything in it’s right place, everything in it’s right place, my mind’s voice frantically whispered.
I sorted through two months worth of paperwork, cleared two desks and organized their drawers, and cleared, then rearranged my dresser. It was immaculate. It was also 3AM. I didn’t want to stop. I had so much more I wanted to do. But I feared that I would be too tired in the morning to even think about getting up.
My eyes opened in a flash when the first alarm went off. And I didn’t even consider hitting the snooze button seventeen times this morning. I laid in bed for a few minutes and felt the dread and dismay of my life. Everything was still wrong. It was all wrong. And now, I was falling behind in my own life.
So, I sprang to action. T.D. had Occupational Therapy at 9am. I was compelled to clean the house some more. I went through emails and started getting back on the horse and back into my life. I went to work and disciplined sassy fifth graders. I entertained Kindergarteners with new games. And I rekindled old friendships with my third grade group.
Not once did I yawn.
I suspected that what was happening to me now was what happened three months ago. Opening my web brower, I began my investigation into what a mixed episode is really classified as. The NIMH states:
Bipolar II is defined by a pattern of depressive episodes shifting back and forth with hypomanic episodes, but no full-blown manic or mixed episodes.
Again, I verified it. DSM-IV Criteria for Bipolar II specifically states that “There has never been a Manic Episode or a Mixed Episode”.
How is this possible? I have never had a full-blown Manic Episode. I don’t think, anyway, at least not diagnostically so. But, I know that I am having feelings of despair and hopelessness while having boundless energy, racing thoughts, and pressured speech.
Bipolar II, as described by Psycheduation.org, is very fitting. I have more depressive episodes than anything. My episodes don’t really last longer than a few months, if even that long. The longest hypomanic episode I ever had was for two weeks. They usually only last about a week and then are followed by crushing depression for a few weeks to a couple of months.
What the hell is this? I feel like I’m losing touch with reality. At the same time, I don’t even think I want to be in touch with reality anymore. I don’t want to take my medicine and I’d rather give in to my impulses than keep fighting this constant, tedious, exhausting battle. I want to stay up all night and do whatever I’m compelled to do. I want to lay in the yard in the middle of the night in the rain. I’m being hit with all of these illogical and sometimes sinister thoughts at light speed.
I’m going downstairs to try to continue the conversation I was having with C.S. at dinner. He asked what I cut with because he had already thrown out all of the razors. I’m crafty, what can I say? I’ve contended with worse than him. I didn’t want to answer, partly because I want to hold on to my little box of lies, and partly because I didn’t think it was appropriate dinner conversation. I asked if he rememberred to buy band-aids. He told me that he refused to buy me band-aids because he’d rather shame me into not doing this again. He told me that he’s taking a tough love approach.
Do you know what happened the last time someone took a tough love approach with me? I suffered while I bided my time. I waited until I had a reliable and self-sustaining source of income. And I ran like hell while never looking back.
I’m up to like 919 words. If you’re still with me, please, help me with some of your insight and personal experience. At least insight into what I’m dealing with here with this seemingly mixed episode.