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BIPOLAR EPISODE - A VIEW FROM THE INSIDE
PART ONE - MANIC
"Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…" I repeat incessantly, as I pace rapidly
back and forth over my already worn carpet, holding my head in my hands, afraid
that if I let go, it will explode into a thousand tiny pieces.
My breathing is rapid and shallow, and I feel so light-headed and dizzy that
I wonder why I haven't passed out yet. Which would be a relief, really. Instead,
I continue to pace uncontrollably, holding my head and repeating, "Oh God,
Oh God, Oh God…" At least while I say this, I won't hear the awful
thoughts in my head, I tell myself.
I have learned to replace thoughts as they come, acknowledging
the negative ones, and replacing them with positive ones. As much as I am able,
I take a negative thought and consciously replace it with a positive one.
"I hate this! I'm never going to get better!" pops into my head
unexpectedly. Ok, I think, I've got to replace this with something positive.
Usually not a difficult thing for me, right now my thoughts are racing in and
out and around my brain as rapidly as a Mozart rhapsody played with all staccato
notes. No thought stays long enough for me to capture it-it's like trying to
capture fireflies on a hot summer's eve.
I note that I am beginning to get very confused, and my thoughts are starting
to feel like holograms-I reach out for them, only to grasp a handful of empty
air, for they are impossible to capture at all, much less to replace with
positive thoughts.
With what little clear thought I have, I realize that I am heading for a
full-blown manic episode, and heading there like a freight train. I tell myself
I have two choices: to panic and lose control, or to stay aware and ride it out,
doing my best to maintain control. Only if I stay aware and use the tools I have
learned, will I be able to help myself.
Pulling out my Emergency Plan, I first call my psychiatrist to
leave a message for his nurse to call me back. I tell the receptionist my name,
birth date, that it is an emergency, and very briefly what is happening; i.e.,
that I may be going into a bipolar manic episode. I have learned to give the
receptionist only the information necessary, since telling her any more would
only upset me, and not help at all (since the receptionist can't do anything
about it anyway).
While waiting for the nurse's return call…
My thoughts are wandering, and becoming worse. Confusion is spinning around
me like planets circling around the sun. I am beginning to lose control of my
thoughts. I need to redirect thoughts now, I tell myself. Since I
am now unable to replace the negative thoughts, I redirect all my physical
energy into a project and concentrate my thoughts on that.
I decide to plant a garden. Already in a hypomanic state
yesterday, I had already bought everything I needed to start a vegetable garden
(and then some). I know I have never grown a vegetable garden before, and no one
has told me how, but I believe I can do it anyway. So I go outside, don my
gardening gloves, and embark on this new project with all the energy I have. I
have to prepare the soil, I think. So I grab the three-pronged gardening tool,
and begin to till the soil.
After a few minutes, I realize I am literally attacking the soil with all the
rage I have within me, and that angry tears are streaming down my face. I have
no recollection of the thoughts that led up to this-only that I am now in a
rage. I keep attacking, and attacking, and attacking the ground, as if it were
every person who has ever hurt me. I stop only when my arms hurt so bad I cannot
swing the tool even one more time.
Sweating and physically spent, I sit myself down; still no easy task, but
better than before. My breathing is deep and heavy, my shoulders heaving with
the effort. I am openly sobbing, but I honestly do not know why. My hands are
shaking, and I begin wringing them. Still feeling like an old record set on 45
speed, I begin rocking back and forth. This is one of my comfort behaviors,
and it helps to settle me down, my rage spent, at least for the moment.
The thoughts in my head begin coming into focus, like looking through a set
of binoculars would fine-tune my sight. The only problem is, these thoughts are
becoming very frightening ones. Now, I tell myself, I must begin to rationalize
thoughts, to replace half-truths, or outright lies, with the truth. When
I observe the thought, "You're crazy. They're gonna stick you in the
hospital and you'll never get out," I tell myself, "That's a lie-I'm
not crazy. That's just fear…or just the disease talking, not me."
I've learned that self-talk is one of the most powerful tools
that I have. So when I think, "It's all my fault," I remind myself,
"This is not my fault, any more than cancer, or diabetes, or heart disease
would be my fault." "If I were normal," I think, "I wouldn't
be going through this right now." But then I remind myself, "It's not
a matter of being normal. You have a broken brain. Not a broken self."
I keep doing this as long as I can, but tire easily with the effort. It is so
difficult to keep up with these "mind games." I am my own worst enemy,
and the thoughts come so rapidly, it's hard to keep up. I am getting exhausted.
I just want to rest. I want it to stop. I want the thoughts to stop. I want to
shut down. I want to run away, but how can I run away from myself? Still, the
run-away impulse begins to escalate, until I start to feel frantic.
I get back up and resume pacing. Back and forth, back and forth I pace,
holding my arms close to my stomach, because by now I'm afraid that if I don't
hold myself together, I will spill out like jello all over my living room floor.
I wish my psychiatrist's office would call me back. It feels like forever
since I called, and I am tempted to call again, but I look at the time and
realize it has only been a half hour. Only a half hour? Oh my God, I think, if
that was only a half hour, how am I going to make it through a whole day? By
now, time has lost all sense of order, and I feel the sense of panic begin to
rise up within me again, rising up to a fever pitch…as I pace faster and
faster to a frantic pace…fear rising higher and higher…panic taking over…and
oh-my-God-I-can't-take-much-more-of-this-I-wish-she-would-call-soon-please-God-help-me-please-help-me-please-help-me-please-help-me…
I realize the tears are flowing freely now, and I am losing control. The
thoughts are becoming impulses. I am afraid now that I will hurt
myself or someone else. I am in the danger zone.
But I remember that if I can make myself consciously do something positive, a
distraction, anything, however small, and succeed in doing that
one thing, then I have a better chance of maintaining control…of holding on…at
least until I can get some help. I tell myself, "Pick one thing, one safe
thing, and concentrate on doing that one thing." What should I do? What can
I do?
I am too confused. Now I am angry at myself. "You can't even think of
one thing to do. You can't even do that right," I hear myself say in my
head. This is dangerous thinking, I know. It leads to other dangerous thoughts
and has, in the past, led to suicidal ideologies, terribly
frightening thoughts. It is as if my own mind has turned against me.
I've got to calm my mind down, I think desperately. I've got to get myself
calmed down, because I'm afraid of what I might do. I must sit down, and stop
this frenetic pacing.
So I sit on the couch, with my hands in my lap. I close my eyes and concentrate
on restorative breathing.
I see myself on my imaginary mountain, cool wind in my hair, sweet silence
surrounding me, as I breathe in deeply through my nose, and breathe out slowly
through my pursed lips. I do this ten times, and as I do, I find my shoulders
relaxing, and my neck becoming lax.
The phone rings. I am startled, my eyes fly open, my stomach lurches, and I
fly off the couch. Every anxiety-laden butterfly scatters around my stomach at
the same time. My hands begin shaking, and my mouth feels as dry as a desert. I
panic, not knowing who is calling me, afraid to answer the phone, afraid they
will realize I am in an episode and put me back in the hospital. I am terrified
of going back to the hospital.
It is Glenda, my psychiatrist's nurse. She asks me to tell her what's going
on. I try to tell her, but everything is coming out in a jumble, and I'm afraid
I'm not making any sense at all any more. I know she is trying to talk to me,
but I hear her words as if in a vacuum, and I just keep crying and talking and
pacing… until finally, through the fog, I hear her say the word "decompensating."
This is our key word, the word we have worked out beforehand for
her to indicate to me that I am heading for, or in, an episode.
In a manic episode, since I tend to speak as fast as my racing thoughts, it
is difficult for someone to get a word in edgewise, even someone who is trying
to help, so Glenda and I worked out this word as an indication from her to me
that I am in the danger zone of a manic episode, and when I hear her say it, I
have agreed to stop and listen to what she is saying. So now I do stop and
listen.
Glenda tells me that she is going to talk to my psychiatrist within the next
10 minutes, because she does realize this is an emergency, and asks me if I will
"contract for safety" for the next 10 minutes. So I
promise that for the next 10 minutes I will not hurt myself or anyone else.
I run into my bedroom, and throw myself onto my bed. Again, I hold my head in
my hands, as I use my "silent scream" so I won't scare
Tyler, my 15-year-old son, who has just come home from school. This is where I
scream in every way, except that it is non-verbal. But I need to use it at times
like this, when I feel like if I didn't scream, I would explode from the inside
out!
I watch the clock, and count down the minutes until Glenda will call back. I
am trying my best not to think negative, hostile thoughts. I don't want to be
antagonistic when she calls back. I know that they have other patients. But
right now I don't care about their other patients. I only care about me. I'm the
one in trouble. I need them now. Not after they've seen their other patients.
Why can't they see how important this is, and how important it is right now?
This is an emergency, don't they know that? I am tempted to call them right back
and remind them this is an emergency. Because obviously they don't know that. If
they did, they would've called by now. Now I am getting very agitated because I
am being kept waiting for so long. Very agitated.
I am getting ready to call my psychiatrist's office to give them a piece of
my mind, and I look up at the clock to check the time. That can't be right, I
think. It's only been five minutes? Five minutes? And here I have gotten so
worked up, so angry, so hostile, over nothing? But that is the nature of the
beast. All this anger comes to the surface, but I never know where it's come
from, what sets it off, why I feel it, how to get rid of it in a healthy way-all
I know is that I am irritable, short-tempered, agitated, angry and hostile, and
sometimes even paranoid, and I will take it out on anyone who even gets close to
me.
But deep inside it's like I'm the real me, like I'm in a capsule, screaming,
"Wait! This isn't me! I'm not like this! Don't listen to that me! I'm in
here! Get me out! Help me!" Only no one hears me. I'm behind cell doors of
a prison in my mind, and no one hears my cries for help. My own mind has turned
against me, is doing things that aren't me, that I would never do, hurting
people that I love, and I cannot do anything to stop it. My pleas for help go
unheeded, because they are unheard.
Glenda calls back, and I grab the phone like a drowning man would grab a
lifesaver. Please, I beg her, please help me? I am terrified! She tells me to
calm down, that everything will be ok. I snap at her, "Yeah, right. That's
easy for you to say. This isn't happening to you." Oh my God! I think.
Where did that come from? Why would I say something like that to someone who is
trying to help me? Oh, Glenda, I am so sorry, I tell her, I didn't mean it,
please, please, don't be mad at me, I need help, I really do. What should I do?
God bless Glenda. She is patient with me, and calmly talks me through my
panic. She tells me what medication I need to take, and tells me what additional
medication she is calling in to the pharmacy for me. She again asks me to
contract for safety, which I do. She asks if there is anything more I need to
tell her, or anything more she can do for me. I say no. She asks if I will be ok
tonight, and I say yes. She asks if there will be someone with me tonight, and I
say yes. Tomorrow? she asks. Yes, I say. All the while, I am thinking, what is
she, Big Brother? But far away, deep down inside me, where the real me is
hiding, I am thinking, someone cares about me, about whether I live or die.
And because of that one little thought, way down in my subconscious, from the
kindness of a stranger who cares about me, I think… "I'm going to fight
my way back. Whatever it takes, I am going to fight my way back.
About the Author
Michele Soloway has dealt with bipolar disorder from a very young age. Her
grandmother, mother, herself, and her teenage son all have the
disorder. She also lost her sister to suicide because of bipolar disorder.
Michele has a blog for bipolar survivors at http://bipolarsurvivor.blogspot.com,
and is also a contributing writer to www.bipolarcentral.com.
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If you are in a crisis please call:
1-800-SUICIDE (784-2433) or
1-800-273-TALK (8255) |
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