My heart is heavy but my ass is still fat.
On lamenting about being in the midst of a mixed episode, but trying to look on the bright side.
A couple of months ago, I was so excited for my first holiday season in years not being depressed. Since 2016, the year my Grandmother passed away, holidays have been a somber time for me. Each one has been an annual reminder that she and my Great-Grandmother are gone. My mental health declining as each year passed didn’t help either. But, I thought for sure this year would be different. I am effectively medicated for the first time. I haven’t been depressed all year (until now). And I was genuinely excited for the season instead of faking it because folks know I love Christmas. But life came in and said, “Oh bitch, you thought shit was sweet? You’re still crazy… remember?”
Most days, I’m spiraling.
In the past 24 hours, I’ve eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, two boiled eggs, and three Chessman butter cookies.1 Coupled with being on an appetite suppressant, this mixed episode has me feeling too sick to eat most days. I did binge for the first in months a couple of days again and I felt so guilty and physically pained. I stuffed myself with more food than I’d eaten in a while and while I temporarily enjoyed the dopamine hit each bite induced, I instantly regretted my decision. And as painful as it was, I know that had my appetite not been altered, I’m sure this would have been a regular occurrence again with how I am feeling. I’m not sleeping well, or much at all. And I am back in that familiar place of being exhausted by my feelings.
Some days I can’t tell if I’m truly experiencing one long mixed episode or if I’m rapid-cycling between depression and hypomania brought on by the change of the seasons and then triggered in full force by recent work happenings. I’ve never experienced anything like this in my career. I can’t believe things have gotten so bad there that I’m trying to return to my old firm until I figure things out, or at least write my damn book. That’s got me feeling guilty as well, considering going back to the place that had a hand in my mental health decline. But like my Yetti said, going back isn't a failure, my new role and environment may be different from what I experienced the last time.
Sadness is a constant.
Though dark and heavy, this space is a familiar one for me. Without medication depression is my baseline, where I usually settle. Because its presence has been absent all year, I almost let myself get used to the prolonged stability that felt so foreign at first. But then the sadness swooped in just in time for the holidays. Feeling this way, I wish I was going to be in the company of family this Thanksgiving, but with me living away from my family and not currently having the energy or finances for the drive home, it’s not looking likely.
I spent most days last week sobbing off and on. I took sick leave for three of those days. The only reason I didn’t take the whole week off was because I didn’t want to deal with contacting my psychiatrist for a letter. Isn’t that something? Just the thought of going through that process exhausted me enough to just log on anyway. I remember not being able to cry earlier this year when I first started my medication. It was so jarring because I’d feel the sensation and need to cry but it would quickly disappear with no tears appearing. I’m sure this past week has made up for that time and then some.
Can I complain for a bit?
I hate that I am back in this space.
I hate that I have to experience every emotion so intensely.
I hate that life happenings can knock me on my ass mentally.
I hate that the world doesn’t stop to let me catch my breath during these times.
I hate that any little thing makes me feel worse.
I hate that I have bipolar disorder at all.
I hate that people’s ignorance causes them to make things worse for me.
I hate that I have to be a present parent through this.
I hate that my daughter has to have a mentally ill mother.
I hate that I want to be both physically held and left alone.
I hate that I feel guilty about complaining when I am one of the lucky ones.
I’m trying not to isolate.
Last week while running an errand, a cashier asked how I was doing. This is a terrible question to be asked when you’ve spent the past few mornings in tears and stopped today just long enough to run some quick errands. So of course, I immediately begin to cry and say “Oh I’m not having the best day.” She responds by saying “Oh honey, unless you work the job I work 7 days a week for minimum wage, you ain’t having a bad day.” I went and cried some more about this exchange in the car because she made me feel worse.
My instinct is to isolate and withdraw during times like these. It’s safer for me that way. I’m way too sensitive for too many unnecessary interactions with other humans during this time. I’m quick to anger, slicker at the mouth, incredibly sad, easily overstimulated, and sometimes annoyingly dramatic. It’s harder for me to deal with the actions of others during episodes and I’d rather just not deal at all.
But I know that isn’t healthy. And I want to be around those who love me during this time. The ones who know exactly how to care for and support me and when they don’t, they’ll still try.
But there is a bright side.
Took me long enough to get to this part, eh? Well first, my ass is indeed still fat even though I’ve lost 18 pounds. That is cause for celebration because I have much pride in my backside and life has taken enough from me.
It is also not lost on me that I am handling this depression so much better than I did unmedicated. It feels different unmedicated. I have no suicidal ideations and though this shit is heavy, I don’t (yet) feel consumed by it.
I’ll never stop singing the praises of my village who never fail to rally behind me during these times. They don’t make me feel like a burden, or too much. They don’t shame me for my symptoms. They offer support in all the ways from coming to visit to sending me money for oui’d. I am incredibly blessed that I never have to go at this alone.
I am also getting quite a bit of writing done. It is unfortunate but beautiful that I write more, and sometimes better, when I am unwell. This is unfortunate because I don’t want to feel like my best work can’t be done in stability. But its beauty lies in how therapeutic it is for me. I can release the thoughts and feelings occupying my mind. And, my words and stories are saving my life and the lives of countless others. So I will continue to share them even amid turmoil.
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Hi Ashleigh. Am a psychiatrist who has been diagnosed with bipolar. Learnt to manage my illness well enough to see patients, but still it hits hard on many days and I just zone off and refuse to work. I have a privilege yes. But I know exactly what you mean. Thank you for sharing this, this makes so much sense. Sending you loads of love and strength to feel better.
What a Great Heading for your post today, I really enjoyed, and will reStack ASAP 🤗💯👍