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BIPOLAR EPISODE - A VIEW FROM THE INSIDE
PART TWO - DEPRESSION
I woke up this morning. That, in itself, is a miracle, I guess, since I
remember praying as I cried myself to sleep last night that I just wouldn't wake
up (again). I do that a lot when I feel like this, because I think I just cannot
face another day like the one before. But here I am (again), because for some
reason, God will not let me die. So I lay here, staring at the ceiling, watching
the fan blades circling, trying to make the major decision of whether I will get
out of bed or not. Tears begin slowly rolling down my cheeks, as I realize I
cannot even make so simple a decision as that, and I roll over on my side,
pulling the covers over my head, and try to erase myself from the world once
again.
As usual, pretending that I don't exist doesn't work, so eventually I have to
drag myself out of bed, although I feel as if I am wearing cement slippers.
After some time of wandering aimlessly from room to room like a ghost in my own
home, too depressed to do anything productive, I end up back in my bed, again in
tears. I don't know why I'm crying. If anyone were to ask me what I was crying
over, I would have to say, "Everything and nothing," because I have no
explanation.
I also never know how long this cloud of darkness will hang over my head,
threatening to envelop me in its clutches and drain the life out of me (what
life there is left) at any moment. Every day I wake up, there is that tiny seed
of hope that maybe this will be the day that I "snap out of it," but I
never do truly know when and if that will happen. Because of this, I cannot make
any plans. Which doesn't really matter now anyway, because any friends I did
have now avoid me like the plague, because who wants to be around someone who is
so moody, so sad all the time, crying at the drop of a hat, and has to cancel
plans all the time because they can't even get out of bed?
Laying in bed, I begin thinking of suicide and wondering if anyone would even
miss me. Now I know I am in dangerous territory, but it is like Pandora's Box. I
just can't help going there. I begin thinking of the ways I could do it. I've
been here before…I think about cutting my wrists or taking a bunch of pills
and going in the bathtub and just "going away," but I know I am too
chicken to do either of those. I go through my usual fantasy of the car
accident, because at least then I wouldn't have to do it to myself-but then
there is the chance of someone else getting hurt, and I don't want that to
happen.
I mentally go through the list of people I know, crossing them off as I
decide that no, they either wouldn't care if I died, wouldn't miss me, or could
get along without me. Only when I get to my children do I have to stop. No
matter how hard I try to believe they wouldn't care, or that they don't love me,
or that they would be ok without me, the fact is that I cannot deny that they
do. There may not be another single person in the world who cares if I live or
die, but my children do, and if for no other reason, I must stay alive for them.
So I start crying again, because now I feel guilty for even thinking of killing
myself, because of how much it would hurt them.
I cannot stand these dark thoughts that meander around my brain, as if they
were flies in my house on a hot summer's night, and try as I might with my
mental flyswatter, they escape my every attempt to eliminate them. So, I think,
maybe I can at least try to lessen their intensity by writing them in my
journal. At least by staying home and putting these thoughts on paper, I
rationalize, I will be safe. And so I begin:
"They say that pain is the touchstone to spiritual growth. I must be
growing a whole lot, then, because I am in so much pain-the pain of a broken
brain, a broken heart, a broken life. I wonder if being alone is a consequence I
will have to pay the rest of my life for all the past relationships I have
messed up, or just a penalty I have to pay for having bipolar disorder. I know I
say that I would rather be alone than in another unhealthy or abusive
relationship, but I am so very lonely. But then, what man would ever put up with
my moods, especially these terrible depressions, never knowing when they will
descend upon me, never knowing how long they will last, never knowing their
cause, never able to do anything to help. Oh, God, will it always be like this?
I feel so dissatisfied, so unfulfilled…so alone. So very alone.
I wish I could identify where this pain is coming from. This deep sadness
must have a source. Yet although I can come up with a thousand reasons, or no
reason, nothing seems to make sense. Nothing holds enough water to keep me under
this dark cloud for as long as it holds me in its power. These reasons are
either so trivial, so "normal" (for other people), or things I can do
nothing about anyway, so why stew over them? So why do all these unanswered
questions bother me so much? Other people seem to be able to handle things so
much better than I do. They don't cry at the least little thing. Why do I?
Why am I so unhappy? I have a home, I have a car that runs, I am in relative
health (physically, anyway), I am able to pay my bills, I have three wonderful
sons who love me. What more could I want for? Yet even as I list these things
out, I know the answer. I miss having a man to hold me while I cry, to kiss away
my pain, to share my burdens as well as my dreams. Ok, now I've crossed over
into self-pity, and that is just not allowed. Some people call it a pity-pot.
For me it is a pity-bathtub. And the depression is bad enough already-I've
already established the I-wish-I-had-a-man thing; I don't have to keep going
over and over the issue. I already know that is a big part of my
depression."
I break from my journal writing, feeling drained and, as usual, feeling the
prick of loneliness as if it were an actual physical pain in my heart. I feel so
lost and alone, wishing Prince Charming would find me and whisk me away from all
this. And so I have a dandy of a crying jag over that one, wondering if any man
would or could ever love me, since I feel like such "damaged goods"
from the bipolar.
I wonder if I will ever be happy. Actually, I wonder if I have ever even been
happy. I have tried to remember. I can remember happy times, but never a
long-lasting period of happiness. I have been battling mental illness as far
back as I can remember. I've been keeping journals since I was twelve years old,
feeling like no one understood, afraid to share my thoughts, for fear of what
other people would think, because they were sometimes such very dark and
disturbing thoughts.
I was lucky in my childhood as far as physical illness-never broke a bone or
was very sick-just the usual measles, mumps, etc. But I was wounded very deep
inside, and I still carry the scars from those emotional wounds. These are my
"hidden wounds," wounds that have never healed. And could these, I
wonder, be the root cause of my depression?
I begin writing in my journal again:
"Some wounds go much deeper than physical-these are the hidden wounds of
the "walking afflicted"-the homeless, the alcoholics and addicts, the
silent sufferers of emotional pain. Some illnesses are not physical as well-the
hidden affliction of mental illness can be more devastating to some than even
the most life-threatening physical illness of others. These are the
"walking wounded," whose illness may never be cured."
Wow, I think, as I put down my pen and ponder what I have just written.
That's exactly how I feel. Like I am one of the "walking wounded."
Like I have this gaping, open sore where I used to be, and there is no bandaid
in the world big enough to cover it, no magic pill to take away the pain…and
that is why I cry. Because I have this bipolar disorder, and it will never be
cured.
I will always feel different. I will never be like other people. I will never
get a day off from this disorder-I will never get a vacation from it-no matter
how long I may be in remission, there is no guarantee that it will not sneak up
on me when I least expect it and I will go into an episode again. Although I may
reach stability, I will never be cured, for there is no antidote to this poison
with which my brain has been infected.
Yes, the fact is that I do have bipolar disorder, and I will never be cured.
So I have two choices. I can either live with it or die from it. If I take my
medication, I can remain stable and have a fairly normal life. If I do not take
my medication, I assuredly will have an episode, and may very possibly succumb
to the suicidal thoughts and take my own life.
Today, I will choose to live with the bipolar, as best as I am able. I will
ride out this depression, however long it lasts, remembering that I have been in
this dark place before and I have come through to the other side. I will stay
alive, no matter how strong the thoughts of suicide-even though now I will stay
alive for my children, there will come a time when I will stay alive for myself.
I will recognize the fact that I will always have problems, but I will try my
best to solve them instead of being overwhelmed by them-I will do this by facing
one problem at a time. I will be as much a part of managing the bipolar as I
can, including taking my medication religiously, so that I will reach stability.
I will take things one day at a time, because really, that is all I can do
anyway. And I will acknowledge that life doesn't stop, whether I am depressed or
not. So I will wipe my tears, and do the best I can.
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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