Rainy Season in Mental Health

It’s been 6 days since my second LSD trip. I am not experiencing the same effects as the first time, the lack of anxiety, the euphoria. I mean, I am, but not as intensely. Also, I have no idea what I’m experiencing right now. Mania? I’m downright twitchy. Depression? I can’t stop having negative thoughts and crying. I feel so, so sad. Manic depression? The more likely of the three, really. But all of these things feel different now and differentiating between them, evaluating symptoms, has become difficult. I’m experiencing emotions in a new way, so I feel like I need a new evaluation system to understand them.

I’m feeling overwhelmed with Christmas coming. I have no presents for anyone yet. I don’t even want to. I mostly want to crawl in a hole and hibernate until holidays have passed and winter is over. I’m feeling an overwhelming desire for isolation, which really just means pity party. Like, I just want to sit in my room, stuff my face full of chocolate and cake and ice cream, and feel sorry for myself. I mean, I’m not gonna do that, but…

And this is how bipolar disorder and depression kills. Because what do I have to feel sorry for myself for? I mean, sure, my life isn’t perfect, I don’t have all the money I want, but I have all I need. I have a home, a car, a good job, children that kind of like me a little once in awhile, and a few really incredible friends who genuinely and unconditionally love me. But that’s the thing, though. Depression doesn’t give a fuck how good my life actually is. Depression can always find something to feel bad about, something to feel hurt over. Depression always has an argument for positive statements like, “I am loved.” Well sure, I’m loved, but… (sigh) “I have a good job.” I definitely do! But I’m still on welfare, you know? Not a lot, but… “I have a roof over my head.” It’s a fucking mess in here. “I am good.” Then why do I feel so fucking bad?

This actually feels like a low-key psychotic break from mania. I got too high, you know? Way too high. Five days in my favorite city with my favorite people eating my favorite foods and being constantly overwhelmed with joy and gratitude. Yeah, too high. Too good. What goes up must come down. At least I’m aware that something is happening. I don’t feel like I’m spiraling out of control or anything, so there’s that. It feels like a slow fall. That doesn’t actually matter because the whole thing is still frightening, really. I don’t want to have the thoughts I’m having and I’m trying my best to let them just drift by, acknowledging but not examining, not allowing myself to get stuck on them. They don’t deserve the energy.

I have a million things I need to do and I’m paralyzed. This is probably my least-favorite aspect of this illness, whatever it is, whichever one causes this feeling of being unable to move, to take even a single step towards what needs to be done. There’s laundry and dishes. I need to go to the bank. Figure out something for dinner. All I want to do is either wallow or paint. A bit of both, really. Wallow a bit and then paint it out.

There is no rational explanation for the feeling of sadness. It is as if I’ve lost someone, like I’m grieving. It is a physical ache, this sadness. My whole body feels it. There is a pit in my stomach and a knot in my throat and tears in my eyes and there just shouldn’t be any of that. That’s what depression looks like. Emotion without cause, without explanation, without reason. Crippling, paralyzing sadness. These are the days I think most about starting therapy again just for some drugs, just for something to ease the pain. Nothing ever has, but hope springs eternal and all. But I’m paralyzed so I won’t do anything about it, again. I won’t find a doctor or make an appointment. Maybe next time. Maybe never. The idea of it feels more detrimental to my well-being than just working my way through things on my own does.

I am definitely experiencing some anxiety. Pretty high, actually. I have medicated and medicated, I have had breakfast, I have had coffee, I have done the right steps, but I still feel just below “panic attack” on the anxiety scale. Because there are some things I absolutely cannot control and no amount of doing right things will change that. It helps, sure, but some things just are. I know this will pass. It always does. Yes, there is always some fear, while in the grips of it, that it won’t pass, not this time. Because that’s what being bipolar is: not being able to accept that the current mood is only temporary. The emotions inside of being bipolar are powerful forces of nature that nothing I can do (short of pharmaceuticals) will enable me to control them completely. All I can do is ride the waves sometimes and remind myself, even if I don’t believe it when I do, that it will end, that I don’t really want to not be alive anymore, that I am loved, that the sun will shine again.

It’s just the rainy season, that’s all. I hope it’s a short one.