You Beautiful Bipolar Moon

Crazy pill count:
AM .5 Ativan, 90 Cymbalta, 25 Lamictal
afternoon .5 Ativan
PM 1 Ativan, 5 Zyprexa

My recent depression really sucked. That's all there is to it. It sucked. It was dark, and deep, and man was it stubborn. Once I finally started feeling better, I really started feeling better.

After twelve plus years, I know the warning signs:

{Rampantly scrolling through my phone contact list}
Who can I talk to? I'll talk to anyone. Let's see...Molly? Who's that? Huh...Molly? Let's find out! Damn. Voicemail. Should text her? Sure, why not. "Sup, dog?" Wait - Molly! Shit. Molly - my old boss! Opps. All well. Let's see...who's next? Who's next? Wait - what time is it?"

Even Siri thought I was being ridiculous:

Okay fine, this wasn't really my conversation with Siri. 

She wouldn't talk to me.

{Over sharing is my next culprit}
Good thing I was only divulging information to my best friend. Thank God, she was the person to finally respond to my calling/texting spree. Of course she can't get a word in edge wise because I'm talking a lot and fast fast fast. But she sure is cracking up. Why? Because I'm hysterical, of course. My take on the world that currently holds no consequences or accountability is quite amusing to the sane of mind.

{Music is next}
Ahhhhhh, music. Beautiful, beautiful music. I can feel the vibration of the beats in my chest, in my heart, and in my swirling head. I want to dance. I need to dance. I float about the room, balloons under my toes, my once heavy chest light and full of oscillating, glowing, manic heat. The moment is so perfect, so pure, I could burst from the beauty of it.

{I smoke like it's my job}
I escape to the balcony to smoke (sorry mom. sorry hubs. sorry lungs.). I smoke and smoke and smoke and smoke. Nothing in the world has ever been better than a cigarette. Except maybe sex. Oh, sex. Now, that's a good idea! Sex. Sex. Sex. Suddenly, feeling very sexual, I'm like a teenage boy, with only one conquest on my mind. But soon I am, once again, distracted by my music. With headphones on, a cigarette, and the intoxicating smell of gently falling rain, I close my eyes and ride the manic wave. I cry the truest form of tears of joy. Unable to contain my bliss it spills from my eyes. I am dizzy in love with what it means to be alive.

To be this gloriously alive:

{I shop like there's no tomorrow because, hey, maybe there's not}

I now decide I should buy presents for everyone I love. In fact I need to. Back into the house and onto etsy.com. I am just as overjoyed to support the artists as I am to buy presents. Except I am interrupted about a hundred dollars in by a phone call from Dr. Crazy.

I tell him I feel good and that "I am back to normal."
Except I think I said it more like this:
"I'm back to normal!!!!!!"

Mr. Smarty Pants Dr. Crazy asks me if I am feeling "too good."

Too good? This? Me? What? No!

Well...actually....perhaps just a tad...

I had to slap myself.
Literally.
I slapped my cheek.
OMG how did I not notice?

I know the warning signs of climbing the rungs of a mania! And I very much was as Dr. Crazy said, "On my way to zooming to the moon."

The problem? I had felt so horrific for so long I honestly forgot what it felt like to be "normal" or "happy." I just thought I was happy. "Happy - wow - being happy sure is amazing," I thought. Wrong. Being happy is nice. It's nice to be happy. Amazing? That would be mania talking, my friends.

So Dr. Crazy switched up my crazy pills a bit and sure enough I came back down. The next day I woke up to a "real" normal. But that's not all. I kept going down. That's the thing about manias...every one's having a great time until someone goes and gets depressed. My manias, no matter how big or small, always crash into depressions if not treated quickly enough. By that evening I was struggling to keep my head above water again.

When I called Dr. Crazy he sensed the disappointment and tears in my voice when I stated:
"The sadness is back."

He gave me one of his really great talks reminding me that we are working with biology. He asked me to please not be too disappointed because biology is funny and it's not always predictable or perfect. We're going to have good days and bad days.

You're going to feel really bad for two days and it's going to suck (which it does), and then you're going to feel better for a day and it's awesome to feel better (which it really is), and then you're going to feel bad for a day, again, but then better for three, and then bad for one, and so on, and so on. Just like someone with rheumatoid arthritis, these things wax and wain.

I know this. I do. But every time I hear it, it's still hard to swallow. It's hard to know that I'm always going to have hard days. I know everybody in life has hard days. Tis' life, friends. You certainly don't have to be crazy to have a hard day. That's not what I mean.

But I had a little woe is me moment. I felt genuinely sad that I will always, sometimes, have so many hard days, that I will sincerely forget what it feels like to be happy - so much so I won't even recognize it as familiar when it returns.

So what did I do?
Well, I had a little pity party.
Sorry I didn't invite you but it wasn't really very fun.

{Pity Party Agenda}
*I cried for roughly one minute.
*I got pissed and shouted a bad word.
*I wrote a bad Cinquain Poem.
*I got sick of being sad and mad and the pity party was over.

My Pity Party Poem:

Madness

Untidy, unsound

Screaming, laughing, smashing

Dealer of diseased, poisoned brains

Thief

Bottom line:

It's okay to have a little pity party every now and then - whenever you want actually.
It's important to remember that bipolar disorder is a disease of biology and it is going to wax and wane. There will be good days and bad days, just like any other illness under the moon. 

We must, must, must tend to our manias. We cannot go zooming off into outer space no matter how grand of a time we think we are having. Depression, regrets, or destruction are always likely to follow. Always call your doctor as soon as you notice the slightest hint of mania. I know it's hard to give up, I do. I promise you I do. But we don't want that depression that will follow. It's never worth it. Take those pills to get it under control.

Most of all, keep that chin up, friends.

Bipolar disorder can really suck. But you don't. 

You my friends, are incredible.
Even with all of your waxing and waning, you are, still, more beautiful than the moon.

I made a video for you of this famous waxing and waning. 

It's a two minute bipolar journey.

Pass the popcorn and enjoy...

Until next time...