A Rock in a Sea of Chaos

Once, I tried to explain to someone that I, unlike most bipolar people, find the mania phases to be worse than the depression. When you are depressed, I reasoned, it is much harder to get out of bed and ruin your life. I was never a risk for suicide, so my depressions were periods of tears and exhaustion, but I wasn't going to cause irreparable harm to my life.

On the converse, mania threatened to undo everything I was and am. I lied to my fiance; I cheated on him. I ignored my friends and left them to do other, more dangerous things. I actively sought the risk of destruction because it gave me a high that nothing else could. It gave me feelings of power, the unequaled sense of control you get when you are on the verge of being uncontrollable. The thrill of walking that line, feeling [knowing] that you, alone, have the power to create and destroy the parameters of your very existence. It is an intense feeling, one that I actively pursued and one that I hope I never, ever, feel again.

Last night was the culmination of three weeks of failing to do things that I know will keep me sane. Failure, sometimes to circumstances outside my control, to keep a steady schedule [and loss of my planner, which makes me feel even more unanchored]. Spring break and sickness, both of which wreaked havoc on my sleeping [in that I slept much more than usual]. I fucked around with my well-established set points, and I should have seen this coming.

After signing off the IM last night at 11:30 PM, I laid in bed and tried to fall asleep, watching an episode of Law and Order I had downloaded. I had taken a late nap, I had a [caffeinated] Diet Coke at dinner, and I was not surprised to find that I couldn't sleep. But instead of calming down and trying other things I usually find to be helpful [making the room completely dark, flipping around in bed, changing pillow arrangements], I got extremely agitated. Again, the muscles straining at my skin, the unmitigated desire to move. To get up. To run down the street or to get in my car and drive around. I wanted to pick up my notebook and write. I wanted to do a million things that weren't lying in bed, that weren't trying to sleep. I didn't want to sleep at all, while--at the same time--wanting nothing but to sleep, for the feelings to come to a crushing halt, for the conflicting voices to silence.

So, I remembered what I said--when I was depressed, I couldn't get out of bed to ruin my life. I made myself stay in my bed, playing game after game of Spider Solitaire, although I realized I was doing a very poor job of actually playing the game. The routine of moving cards around, of matching suits and numbers, started to have a calming effect.

I noticed that I was, for the first time in more than a year, doing "manic" things, namely clenching my teeth, which is something I used to do late at night, when I couldn't sleep, when I was working intently on something else. I forced myself to unclench the teeth, but then noticed that I had one side of the covers clenched in my left hand, so hard it almost hurt. Again, I needed that pressure, the feelings of my fingers wrenched into each other.

But I made myself unclench the fist. Breathe. I downloaded a new cd, Home Vo. 5 by Andrew Kenny and Ben Gibbard, and I listened to the whole thing. I moved suits until I could lie there for five, then ten, minutes without clenching.

Eventually, I was able to settle down, put on a familiar show, and fall asleep. And I was proud of myself for this strategy, the forcible confinement to my bed, refusing to allow myself to leave the house or even to sit up and do anything except a mindless task. And it worked, and I defused my own situation.

But I definitely am going to bump up my meds, get back on my schedule, and get things straightened out again. Because I don't want this to become a common occurrence--just because I can defuse my own situation doesn't mean that I will--or can--be able to do it all the time. And I don't want to try my luck.