Bipolar Disorder, The Downside To Mania And The Impulsive Spending Sprees

Not everyday is a bad day just because you have bipolar. Nor is everyday a good day. Sometimes the days can be quite inconsistent. Sometimes they are hard to keep track off, that is why keeping a journal is so critical for me. It gives me an opportunity to track my bad days, head them off before they turn into full blown manic or depressive nightmares. Or at least try to do something about them. being committed to keeping track of moods helps me keep episodes in check.

Sometimes though manic episodes cannot be avoided, what transpires during this episodes can be devastating, and many times after, I have to pick up the pieces like a broken vase. Of this particular episode I was radically manic, I was a runaway train waiting to derail. Often in my manic phases I find sorrow.

There is always that element of disaster, not only mine, but the wreckage I leave behind for the ones I care about most. They are left overwhelmed, wondering what the hell happened, and what they should do next. Because unfortunately they don't always know. So the following story I would like to tell, is a manic episode I call Bipolar 1 And 40 Pairs Of Shoes.

There is a reason why I have given into the very illness that follows me around like a dark unrelenting vestige. The one thing I LOVE DOING THE MOST suffers because there is nothing but gooey marshmallow like clouds swirling around in my head. Writing is what I love. Between mood cycles and medication, so often there is nothing but piles of fuzz.

I am high and euphoric as I can possibly be in a world covered with excitement and amazing colors. Everyone looks small and unhappy because I am a warrior with so much happiness no one can possibly share that. My best friend wonders why I am speeding down the highway at 100 mph giggling out loud. "Just because I can".

People stare in awe, as I stand at the top of The 360 Chicago (The John Hancock Observatory)describing to everyone who will listen, how awesome it would be to break the glass and fly off the ledge. The scary part is I really believe I can. Friends and family cannot understand a single word I am saying, but it makes perfect sense to me. And when it starts not to make sense, I don't care. I keep talking.

I pretend I am perfectly normal. That is what I want you to see. Until the voices start to set in. Demanding I do things I absolutely do not want to do. I try to disregard them, but they are unrelenting. I soon am eluding reality. The tide begins to turn. The face of darkness begins emerge.

I spent my life's savings on 40 pairs of shoes I just had to have, I went on vacation to Jamaica because it was a fantastic adventure, and I had enough on my credit cards, so why the hell not. I met wonderful people, I even took some of them to my hotel room because every person I met was sexually attractive, and my desire was just so voracious.

Irritation soon sets in. Every little thing begin to set me off. Every little noise made me mad. I began to question my decision to why I went to Jamaica. I hated myself for being out of control. I was getting angry because there was nothing I could do about it now. My anger was turning into deep rage. The people I was having fun with, were no longer interesting to me. They were getting on my nerves, so I decided to go home. With no explanation to them whatsoever.

On the flight home, I complained to whomever would listen me. Talking, talking talking. Rage was so close to the surface, I wanted to explode. The euphoric high was breaking itself into a lonely, paranoid, and anxious shell. Voices itched at the inside of my skull. Begging me to hurt myself. I already bought 40 pair of shoes I didn't need, what next?

When I got home, the darkness carried me even farther into a pit of hell. I went to bed contemplating how I was going to end my life. There are so many ways. I only had to pick one, or just go to sleep. Think about it later. Suicide is always an option when depression starts to live inside your heart.

I cannot work, because I cannot move my body. It won't let me. I am frozen, I know I am in trouble but cannot make myself go to the hospital or call someone to help me. I am convinced no one cares. That I am worthless. They hate me because I am not normal. I am a burden. And So...

This is Bipolar 1. A little bit of adventure, and a whole lot of sorrow. Primarily this is just one episode. Perhaps next time the high would be too high, and I would jump off the John Hancock Building or the low would be to low, and I would pick that ending. The voices would win. It is a vicious cycle that keeps repeating itself. Day after day, year after year. With luck, the normal episodes get longer and longer.

Writing is one of my favorite things to do. But since being medicated, it doesn't come all that easy anymore. So I write, and I write some more. I don't write for deadlines. I don't write for a living. I just write. Sometimes it is not so good and sometimes I hope it is. I practice pushing forward. The not so pretty things need to be written down as well. And that is my reality, the reality of bipolar 1 and 40 pairs of shoes I really didn't need.