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| "Anguish" by February Grace, 2014 |
In July, five years ago, my entire life came crashing down
around me in the sharp, shattered, dangerous mess that only the culmination of a long-lasting
manic episode can bring about. Only at the time, I didn’t know it.
I didn’t know I was literally losing my mind. I just knew
that nothing made sense any more. The things that had previously been my anchor
in life were things I felt desperate to be free of; the things that made me
feel safe before scared me into wanting to run.
And I did run. I ran far, far from where I started, only
to end up running back in a story best left to others to tell, perhaps, one day
long after I am dead and gone.
I remember feeling manic as a child and thinking everyone
felt that way. Only now can I put words to the panic, anxiety, and Bipolar
disorder that I believe have plagued me since I was as small as I can remember.
They called me ‘too sensitive’. A ‘worrier’. But back then, we didn’t know what
we know now. We didn’t have the understanding, or the words, to describe what I
really was. Even if we had, my parents would never have believed it.
I was misdiagnosed with major depressive disorder in my
early twenties, and so I was given the wrong treatment for years afterward. Still somehow I managed to
channel my manic energy into writing, into working, into raising my child. That
was before my physical health got so much worse, before the monster turned to its darkest self, though there was always this
voice in the back of my head that tried to convince me everyone would just be
better off if I was gone from the planet.
That voice can/could/was/ only silenced by different
medications, finally prescribed after my eventual Bipolar 1 diagnosis back in
August of 2011. I fought the label at first, though deep down I knew it had to
be true.
I was completely broken. I wasn’t myself anymore, and I
hoped that medication would bring me back to being someone who recognized their
own reflection in the mirror when they saw it. I even blogged about my early
days of treatment here on this blog, back then, wondering what life on Lithium
would be like (sad that I couldn’t tolerate it physically, it really did help
with the disorder) wondering if I’d still be able to write, to paint.
Five years later I know the answer is that these medications
exact a huge toll from me for the good that they do in keeping me around. They’ve
gagged and bound my muse; for months (a year, maybe longer?) I haven’t been
able to write more than a few lines of fiction or poetry. I’m never satisfied
by my artwork and painting has become a frustration. I feel I've lost the sense of humor that kept me going for such a long time.
Life stress piled upon life stress until the point where my
current med cocktail just isn’t working anymore. My doctor knows this, I know
this, my therapist knows this. It’s at least partly because I can’t afford the
brand name version of the med that anchors the rest, and the generics just do
not work the same for me. That money is a factor in getting effective treatment is sickening in and of itself.
So I’ve retreated into myself in the past several months, withdrawing from everything and everyone
until all I do is sleep.
Where have I been? Why haven’t I been active on social media
as I used to be, why haven’t I been liking and commenting and posting?
Simple answer: I’ve been asleep. Or fighting to stay
awake when I had to, just until I could crash and retreat into sleep again.
My body has shut down in the face of multiple life stresses
(including my husband’s recent illness.) I’ve been
sleeping 18 hours a day or more. No matter what I try I can’t seem to wake up.
I can’t drink coffee any more (for other health reasons) and soda is so bad for
me that I try to save it and its caffeinating effects for when I really have to
go somewhere, do something, make sense. Though I am easily confused, my memory
is suffering, and I feel like my brain is in hibernation and I just can’t wake
it up.
I’m counting down the days until my next doctor’s
appointment (next week) though I don’t know what she’s going to do for me. We’ve
tried almost everything there is to try and I’ve either been allergic to it, or
had other serious side effects that couldn’t be tolerated or some such thing
that caused discontinuation of more meds than I can recall or even count at
this point.
It’s hard when you can’t function... when you can't do the things that you felt made
you who you are anymore. I didn’t miss writing for a long time, and in fact
still wouldn’t say I 'miss it' but rather I’d say it’s something I need to do to
be better; yet my brain won’t cooperate. It’s empty of the character voices
that led me in the direction of each story, and without them I can’t write. My
physical health is suffering as well, and I’m at a point where I am literally
sleeping my life away and wondering how I will ever understand or justify the
time I’ve lost to myself should I improve somehow later.
So that’s where I’ve been. And that’s all I can say for now.
I’m incredibly tired, feel like I haven’t slept for weeks… I need to rest, just
a little while longer, then maybe I’ll finally feel better.
Who am I kidding? Unless they figure out how to fix my meds,
I don’t know when things will ever get better.
I miss the person I was once, what feels like so long ago.
I wonder if she can be saved, yet.
~bru