I tend to be notorious in my classes for two things: raising my hand all the time when I am present, and for frequently, to some people alarmingly, not being present at all. The first is simply because I enjoy class discussion. The second takes a bit longer to explain.
Contrary to what some people believe, bipolar disorder does not mean you change emotions suddenly and violently (unless your medications have been prescribed improperly or you are not taking them the way you're supposed to), and it does not mean you are necessarily more dangerous than anyone else. My own version leans more towards the cyclothymic, which is a milder, more rapid-cycling manifestation. It's a predictable pattern by now, six years after I first began treatment. I spend two to three weeks fairly stable, my emotions directly related to things going around me the way it is with people considered normal.
Then I have three or so days of mania, the "up" portion. It's a bit like being tipsy all the time, I'm told when I describe it to people, though I don't know firsthand because my medications can't be combined with alcohol. Everyone around me seems a bit more attractive. I become obsessed with sex. I'm extra-hungry. My mind fills with racing thoughts and ideas that, however reckless, seem fantastic at the time. No, sublime! No, the best ideas that anyone has ever had in the history of human idea-having! I have to take measures to keep myself from buying too many things online, the cravings for shopping super-intense, ones that have made me fall into overdraft more than once, spurred me chasing after freelance writing jobs in order to support them, and made me the University's record-holder in packages received through the post office. All the while everything in my head tells me that I'm gorgeous, brilliant, brave....Sometimes I laugh for no reason at all. It's fun, somewhat, but there's an undercurrent of danger, and it is exhausting after the first few hours.
Depression for me lasts longer, from a week to around ten days, depending. That's when I'm the most likely not to show up in class, and the main reason I have disability accommodations to reassure professors that I'm not just skipping for the sake of skipping. I want to spare all of you some of the ordeals high school's more stringent attendance policies caused: me sobbing uncontrollably in class over getting a low grade on a test or someone making fun of me, panic attacks of hyperventilation and stammering, the almost irresistible compulsion to curl up in a ball under the desk. Not only do I not learn things very well in such a condition, but no one else does either. A friend who has similar issues once joked with me about the difficulty she has excusing herself to classmates who want to know where she was: "I had to go to...Mars...to...butter my....cat." We've since made that a code when one of us is having a day like that, because sometimes it's difficult to talk directly when you feel like your blood has been replaced with cold paste.
My defenses against these things are many. I take seven pills a day, at different times, and avoid alcohol and significant amounts of caffeine because they might make the medication less effective. I deal with the shaky hands, dehydration, fatigue, and excessively vivid nightmares the medications have as side effects as best I can. I walk downtown to have an hour of talk therapy once a week. I also talk to a psychiatrist on the phone once a month so he can keep prescribing my medication. I crochet, or write, or call a friend, or play silly and mindless games to take myself away from the darkest hours. If I want to scratch or bite myself, I draw (or have a friend draw) butterflies on my arms that I name after loved ones, which I must keep alive by avoiding self-harm. I remind myself that there is a real me that is not chemicals in my head, that is a constant thing even when layers of confusing emotional noise muffles it, when I feel lost and doubtful. Most of all, I never let myself be ashamed, and hang onto hope that each day will be a day I can survive.
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