A Lie is a lie is a lie

My workload is beyond huge and I pretty much just go work to home to bed to work again. I barely have the intellectual and emotional energy to fulfil my (extensive) duties at work, and certainly have nothing left to give here at the end of the day (I’d say “at the end of the week”, but I’ve been working 7 days for the past 6 weeks).

Tonight, facing down a week in which everything might change or nothing at all, I am reflecting on how I talk about my feelings, and my revulsion – and I don’t use that word lightly – at people sharing their feelings with me.

I have vaguely started seeing someone – it’s incredibly early days but this is also the point I usually bail. I don’t want to reveal anything of myself, and I worry people will expect or want something from me I can’t give, so I break it off. In this case she’s back footing me by being very honest about her emotions. As though reflection on her emotional state is just an element of her day to day life (imagine!) and a totally ordinary thing which you would talk about over dinner (!!!)

If this was a drama series, we’d cut now to a parallel storyline, there’d be a fade out, perhaps a bit of post production wizardry to indicate we were rerunning the same time period from a different perspective…

My parents and one brother came to visit me last week. When they were here we were having a general conversation on what one of my other brothers was up to; it emerged this [other] brother had had a mini stroke 3 weeks ago. Nobody told me. It literally just slipped out in conversation. When I expressed surprise, my brother [the one visiting] and my Dad said they assumed I knew, my Mum said she’d told them she hadn’t told me. No explanation why. I light heartedly lamented that “nobody tells me anything” and I got the general run down of what had happened.

I told my parents about the ‘big’ event happening this week which may, or may not, change things for me in the long term, but has the potential to. They simply said “oh.”  I told my brother I was disappointed they did not react positively. He [evidently] told my Mum. She said ‘unprompted’, later, that she had not reacted as she did not want to “put pressure on me”. As though celebration is pressure. As though any expression of positive acknowledgement is pressure. This is the woman who loudly tutted and said “for goodness sake” when I [uncharacteristically] squealed with delight upon opening a letter informing me I’d won a PhD scholarship back in 2012.

Emotions are not welcome in my family.

My brother who had the mini stroke has schizoprenia. I have written briefly about this previously. I wonder sometimes if he is the conduit for all emotion in our family. His psychosis the floodgates of everyone else’s emotion. His illness the only time we any of us acknowledge that we have emotions too.

[cut scene of landscape, setting the scene for our return to my romantic life]

The trouble is, this life, this background has meant I feel faintly disgusted by other people’s emotions. And I live in horror at the idea anyone will pay close attention to mine, or worse still, treat me differently as a result of any emotions they imagine or know me to be experiencing.

I am taking a peverse pleasure in witholding the same kind of disclosure the woman I’m seeing has trusted me with so readily. I also wonder if I should cut and run from anyone so willing to lay themselves open like this, what could I possibly offer someone like this? And when did I agree to such disclosure – how dare she?

[wibbly wobbly screen denoting that we are casting back through the mists of time]

When I was 15 I experienced a period of what I know understand to have been depression, for the first time. I withdrew from my friends and simply turned inward. My friends were initially concerned, then annoyed, then furious. I remember vividly, in the period I was returning to normality, having two friends literally corner me in a room and scream at me that I had failed to adequately explain my unhappiness and social withdrawal in the preceeding weeks. They said this was unacceptable conduct for a friend and that I was selfish, paranoid, and cruel.

That I had never asked them for anything during this period, and that I simply did not have the language or self-knowledge to communicate what I was experiencing emotionally was irrelevant. It was all or nothing. Lay yourself out in full, disclose everything, or face the consequences.

[fade out, fade in 5 years later. I am 20 and arguing with my girlfriend]

Again I am in a period of depression. Whilst I now know it for what it is, I still don’t have the vocabularly to describe what it feels like. I don’t have a diagnosis of cyclothymia and can offer no explanation of why everything was fine until it wasn’t.

She is furious with me that I didn’t tell her I was becoming depressed. She rejects my answer that I simply woke up feeling that way one day, without warning. She tells me she sees no point in continuing a relationship with me given I have “juvenile” mood swings.

I am sitting on the floor, weeping, begging her to give me another chance. Promising to be “better”. She stands over me and agrees to give me one more chance.

I silently resolve to bury my feelings. To mask them lest I lose the woman I love

[spoiler, she cheats on me years later and I lose her anyway]

[Back to the present. We’re coming to the end of the movie now]

Perhaps it’s no bad thing to try and allow myself to be open to this woman’s ordinary disclosures of her emotional state. Perhaps I should cherish them.

But can I imagine how to begin talking to her about my emotions? My moods? No.

I have the words when I talk to myself. And when I write them out here. But out loud? No. I’ve only done it a handful of times to close friends and always when both drunk and hypomanic.

Hearing myself describe my internal world is the most perfect crystallisation of my disgust at the discussion of emotion. I despise my weakness, my irrationality, my need. And I don’t believe myself – or I both believe and don’t believe myself

[shot of me, splitting into two. One of me tells the truth. The other looks at her with revulsion, and utter utter disdain. “You don’t really feel like that. You just want attention. You’re just making it up”]

I often worry this blog is not even ‘true’. Just a lengthy self-delusion. Cyclothymia is diagnosed from self-disclosures, so all this might be based on a lie. A lie I tell myself and everyone else. Not talking about emotions ensures I am not lying to anyone else but myself.


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Curating Madness

I’ve been sitting on this blog post since December when I had a completely overwhelming and wonderful experience at the Van Gogh Musuem in Amsterdam. I’ve written critically before about the idea madness gifts you some sort of creative inspiration; and to a degree that was nagging at me when I entered the gallery.  I chose to take the audio guide – and if you find yourself in Amsterdam at the gallery I recommend you do the same – and my reflections are therefore based on the narrative given in that form, rather than just through the written notes provided.

What I was worried about – and what was refuted repeatedly – was that the gallery would uncritically reproduce the ‘tortured artist’ narrative and emphasise Van Gogh’s illness over and above his ambition, his hard work, and his creativity.

The audio tour carefully, without hyperbole, and with great compassion, acknowledged Van Gogh’s illness, his repeated decisions to seek treatment, and the professionalism of the doctors who tried to help him. The audio tour explicitly refuted the idea that madness is a prompt to creativity, quoting from Van Gogh’s letters to his brother where he described and lamented his inability to work when he was ill. The tour even suggested that without the illness, Van Gogh may very well have been more prolific, and, importantly, happier.

I cried listening to this. Not simply because I was relieved to hear such an even handed assessment of living with mental ill health, but also because the compassion and matter-of-fact way in which Van Gogh’s struggles were recounted was so damned refreshing. We rarely talk openly about catastrophic mental ill health (and as I’ve said before, popular discussion of palatable ills aren’t getting any points from me) and even less frequently discuss it with the words and creations of the sufferer at the centre.

I felt seen, I felt held by those paintings, by this man with whom I have perhaps shared a little of the experience of poor mental health. Most importantly, I felt welcomed by this enormous gallery. I felt like they had left a little note saying “mad people welcome here. We see you. We know you are neither more nor less for your struggles.”

I’ll end with one of my favourite discoveries from the gallery; I’ve always loved the painting Wheatfield with Crows. The colours are intoxicating, the slightly strange perspective reminds me of a view from a hill outside the village I grew up in, the brush strokes make the wheat move in the light breeze and the crows delightedly wheel above it all, cawwing – I’m sure they do, I can hear them.

It’s also always been slightly tainted for me; I was told it was Van Gogh’s last painting (disputed, according to the audio tour) and he may or may not have received the fatal bullet wound in a wheatfield. The inclusion of crows has been read as prophetic, given crows are associated with death. However, the audio guide was categorical; this is a joyful painting. There is no evidence Van Gogh used crows to signify death (like me, I think he saw them rather differently – clever and social and making their living off the things others find distasteful). And the painting, like all his paintings, was not created during a period of intense depression – he couldn’t paint during intense depression.

So, as well as quite unexpectedly finding a place for stories about mental ill health alongside – but not as the explanation for – tremendous creativity, the Van Gogh Musuem was also the place I re-found a painting. Without the taint of suicidal unhappiness, without prophecy and introspection, but with joy and fresh air and crows flying and wind blowing and a fresh scent on the air.

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Stopping Suicide and Neoliberalism

I’ve been frustrated, to say the very least, to see the seemingly endless tweets this last week following two or three (depending on which twittersphere you live in) high profile suicides. There was Anthony Bourdain, Kate Spade, and for those of us in academia, the one that cut closest to the bone, Malcolm Anderson.

The ‘answers’ to the desperately sad end to these human lives have fallen into one of two categories; 1: they should have asked for help, or 2: their friends and family should have done more to help

Here’s the problem with both these solutions: it insists this is a personal problem and not a social problem. It is, in effect, a neoliberal solution. Neoliberalism posits that individual success or failure is down to the individual. You’re poor? Didn’t work hard enough. You’re fat? Didn’t exert enough self-control. Social, structural factors do not get a look in*.

Why is this relevant to the tweets and recommendations offered? All those ‘solutions’ propose that if friends just “check in” a little more, people won’t kill themselves, won’t feel worthless, alone, isolated.  If people ‘ask for help’ and ‘tell someone’ they are feeling suicidal they will be saved! and somehow those feelings will magically be resolved by virtue of sharing them and their friends offering…who knows what.

By contrast: a response to an increasing suicide rate, and suicides of people who work in high pressured work environments, which accounts for the social conditions we share, which considers the health care environment we’re living with, which acknowledges social welfare arrangements and the role of the state? That response says we need fully funded mental health services. It says we need proper social care, social services, addiction support. It says we need to totally destroy the institutional, neoliberal, working cultures which profit from our anxiety. We need to end the cultures which say “work until you break, then we fire you and hire the next person in line, who is desperate for any work no matter how exploitative and insecure**”

I am not a psychiatrist. I am not a crisis team. I am not a therapist. I am not a GP who can prescribe medication. Why do the solutions circulating on twitter lately suggest I have all of those skills and more and can save my friends from suicide?

Nobody expects that I should have been able to save my friends dying from cystic fibrosis, breast cancer, or recurrent brain tumours. Yet I am expected to have saved my friends from dying from their chronic mental health issues?

There’s also a presumption that everyone who is suicidal fits a fairly narrow image of the depressed but totally loveable waif. People who are suicidal are sometimes long-term ill and isolated from friends and family. They may have addiction issues which mean friends and family can no longer intervene in protection of their own health and wellbeing. They may be psychotic or manic and entirely out of touch with reality. People who take their own lives may not show any warning signs, they may not exhibit a single ‘symptom’. People die on impulse, in desperation, and by accident as part of an action which was intended to be harmful but not fatal.

More than this – there’s a suggestion people who died from poor mental health didn’t ask for help. This magical catch all phrase which twitter seems sure is the cure to all. They do. They did. They are right now. But when we look bigger, when we look structural and social we can see that a) asking for help doesn’t mean you’ll receive appropriate or useful help, as my own experiences testify and b) asking for help can risk more, so much more. Why didn’t Malcolm Anderson ‘ask for help’? He probably did, but the work culture meant asking more than once, or even twice, would be unacceptable and risk his position and pay. And if there are no mental health services? If you have been labelled ‘attention seeking’ and are refused crisis care or referral?

The crisis of suicide is not an individual problem. It will not be solved by leaving your friend a voice mail message saying you “miss them and care about you and hope you feel better soon” (although that doesn’t hurt). It won’t be solved by simply saying, to the universe “help me”, because when there is a global toxic work environment which isn’t going to change around your pain, or when there are no specialist medical services to address your needs, that’s no better than saying nothing.

We are not the part of this that needs solving. We did not kill our friends and family through neglect of care or love. We are not individually responsible for everyone who falls off the edge. We are doing ok, collectively. We’re doing the best we can, individually. It’s the system that needs to change.


* This is a good, plain language piece if you’d like to read more on this idea of neoliberalism and the self. https://www.huffingtonpost.com/robert-kuang/the-neoliberal-trap-of-th_b_9751594.html?guccounter=1

** My experiences are included in this article after my union put the journalist in touch with me.

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Not so manic now?

I’ve been having a….time.

After a really dreadful summer last year, I was pretty much on an even keel. Had a hard November/December but that was mostly just work induced exhaustion which was resolved with a well timed holiday. Went into the new year – and new term at work with a lot of energy and optimism. But I’ve felt like my bucket of joy has a hole in the bottom for a few months now. As soon as I fill it up it seems to be half empty again.

After a wretched few weeks of the most acute anxiety I have ever experienced for such a prolonged period I managed to arrange an appointment to speak to my GP (a challenge in itself when you are struggling to process the most simple of task and panic at any unexpected occurance). We agreed that I should try some medication again so I am going on a low dose of Trazodone, something I haven’t tried before. I’ve been putting off starting for a month because of my worries about the side effects. And then I felt ok at the beginning of this week but today I realised that, yes, I need to commit to trying it. If that doesn’t work the GP suggests he will review the waiting list to see a psychiatrist and we can decide whether it’s worth waiting, or if he can write to psychiatrist for advice and prescribe to me in primary care what would normally only be allowed in secondary care.

One thing he sort of threw out there was the suggestion that the diagnosis of cyclothymia may not be the right one – or at least not the one which actually opens options to me to get what I need. He, rightly, pointed out that there is so much overlap between criteria for different diagnoses that it’s not really a science so much as a fitting – does this diagnosis provide a way to treat and help this person? No. What else?

I’m open to revisiting the diagnosis, but it did remind me how hard I find it to speak out loud about the most troubling symptoms. I have written about some of them here, and I often report them to friends when I am experiencing them. But cold, in an office? It’s difficult to lose face in that way – here is a load of undignified, nonsensical stuff that happens in my head sometimes.  I am afraid of being laughed at. I am afraid of being dismissed, or talked down to, or not believed. I am afraid of being feared or a source of disgust.

And in all of it, I can never turn off the voice that’s saying “you’re making it all up. You’re doing it for attention. Just pull yourself together and stop being so self indulgent”. I can hardly report symptoms I could get rid of if only I gave myself a good talking to, now can I?

Either way, the 8 year med-free cyclothymia experiment is over.

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Where Are We Now?

I think the time since the last update might be the longest I’ve gone between posts. There both are and are not reasons for this.

One big factor has been work. Work has been both rewarding and exhausting. I’ve had no time to post, and no mental energy left – which is sometimes good, it can be nice to feel spent and have no time or inclination for unproductive introspection.

In terms of work, most recently, my union called 14 days of strike action spread over 4 weeks. Due to my participation in the strike, work has transformed from a good balance of exhausting and rewarding, to a source of anxiety, frustrated productivity, and stress.

This post isn’t about the reasons for the strike action, it’s about the personal, emotional experience of taking part in prolonged and ongoing strike action. And, I think, it might be about being in my mid-30s and not feeling I have much direction.

I’ve written before about my slightly complicated relationship to work, it’s where my sense of self worth and fulfilment comes from. It’s the only place I get that from. Not being able to work -deliberately withdrawing my labour – means denying myself a regulating, rewarding element from my life. And it takes it’s toll on my mental wellbeing.

When I’m working sometimes I can’t get out of bed in the morning, I can’t sleep, I feel frustrated and I feel overloaded and I need to be able to work flexibly because sometimes I have very poor concentration and anxiety. It’s important to note that all those things are present whether I’m in work or not. However, what I lose during the strike (and during holidays where I don’t have an actual trip-away of some sort planned) is the focus, the impetus to keep moving, and the sense of connection to some sort of purpose.

If I don’t have the next deadline to drive me forward, if I don’t have a place to go to structure my day and move me from one headspace (home – neurosis) to another (work – purpose) I don’t get that sense of worth.

And right now, as more friends settle down, as more friends move forward with home purchases or children or deepening and developing relationships, it’s harder to find reasons to celebrate or be happy with who I am by reference to who I am as in individual – who I am on a personal level. Nobody wants me on an inter-personal level, so I need to prove my value professionally.

And now I can’t do that. Worse; I have to stop working in order to try and protect my retirement income. So not only am I refusing to work, I’m doing it as an investment in a future life I literally cannot imagine. And not just in a millenial, I’m-never-going-to-retire, way. I mean in terms of not being able to imagine my life in retirement as anything other than cripplingly lonely, with no value as a person, with no purpose. And still mad.

Being mad, as you get older, is harder. I have less tolerance for it in myself and others. I see the frequency of mental health problems and neuroses in my peers. I hear people talking about it. And I don’t – can’t – won’t?- accept it.

This is not what I imagined or expected or hoped my life would be like ‘in the future’ [forever deferred, non-specified future that is]. I don’t want us to have to spend all this energy on looking after each other. I’m fed up of seeing people drop off the edge without warning. I hate realising we won’t just ‘grow out’ of the pain and trauma which shaped us at different points in our past. I am exhausted by all of our struggles.

I feel hopeless, drained, to come to the realisation that this is life. This isn’t the stuff we sort out before we get on with life. This is it. It’s woven into the fabric of our everyday. There are so many memes about adulthood being defined by feeling constantly exhausted. I think it’s possible to read that simply as physical exhaustion – but it’s also a psychic exhaustion.

And I want to bury my head in work and avoid all of this. ‘This’ being pain and messy emotions and crap coping strategies and uncertain future. But, of course, I can’t.

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Being mad is, above all other things, boring.

Same cycling moods. Same paranoia. Same neurosis. Same self-harm. Same rambling, irrational verbalisations of the experience.

The whole “just ask for help”, the “if you want to talk, I’ll always be here” thing. It’s all…difficult in the face of that.

“Help! I’m in crisis! Admittedly…it is the same crisis I was in 3 months ago. And I’ll say the same things I did then. And so will you. And it’ll pass, like it did last time but…”

How can I pierce through my friend’s Saturday nights – good, bad, indifferent as they may be – to ask them to keep me company through this most familiar, most urgent but also most recurrent mood?

Yes, I’ll self harm. But in the scheme of things, does that really matter? Is my non-permanent self-damage really more significant than their comfortable night in, or night out, or early night? Of course it isn’t.  And why at 30-mumble-mumble years old am I still incapable of actually taking responsibility for myself on that front?

Why can’t I heal myself? Why can’t I care for myself in a manner which doesn’t shape my clothing choices for the next 3-4 weeks? Why am I so incapable of managing my own moods that I have the option of being “the crazy, exhausting, always something wrong” friend or the “distant, so fun, really hard to pin down” friend who definitely never reveals any of this?

Why can’t I be a whole person?


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I grew up, like so many people my age, being told we could be anything, achieve anything if we only set our minds to it.

My parents are the result of post war baby boom. The world changed beyond recognition in their lifetime. They built me up to more than they ever imagined for themselves and they did it in good faith. They are a generation of optimists.

We, at the top end of the “millennial” generation, have come to terms with the idea we’re going to have lower social mobility than our parents. We’ve come to terms with the idea that we can enjoy avocado on toast but not ever get a mortgage.  We’re more educated but underemployed and living on temporary and zero hour contracts.

We get to do that collectively.

What I don’t get to do collectively, is come to terms with the other limitations I never expected. The limitations which no amount of work, witty think pieces, or economic change will alter.

Tonight this came, unexpectedly, into focus, when I watched a BBC 2 show called “Astronauts: Do You Have What it Takes?”

When I was a kid I wanted to either be an astronaut or a vet. My maths and biology was atrocious during my A Levels because I was a neurotic, mentalist wreck and busy taking lots of drugs so I never applied to any veterinary university programmes. But I know the route to being an astronaut can be much more circuitous, so I never really, truly let go of that dream. I’ve never pursued it, but it has lived as a pleasant daydream at the back of my head.

Cyclothymics in Space! is not a series we’re going to see anytime soon. Our unique talents don’t really tally.  What can I bring to the ISS? Moods which expand beyond self discipline, a tendency to paranoia, lingering trauma and grudges which primarily exist in the mind and not objective reality. Emotions which happen for no damn reason. Fluctuating energy levels, distrust, clouded reasoning, blurry recall, hyper sexuality.

These are antithetical to being an astronaut.

Lots of people are unsuited to being astronauts. People with physical disabilities, people with chronic physical health conditions, people with colour blindness, deaf people, blind people, claustrophobics…the list goes on and on.

But tonight it was realising I would be ruled out at the first personality and emotional evaluation test stage which made me feel utterly defeated.

We all want to be limitless. Our limits happen in different places and at different times. Sometimes it’s unexpected places we find them, places or things we didn’t even know we still had an emotional connection to (like being an astronaut) and that’s when it can really trip you up.

No mortgage, no stint on the ISS. I’ve got avocado on toast, what is the consolation prize for not being able to be an astronaut?


Filed under media &c, self-hood and cyclothymia

The lights are off

Yesterday I couldn’t function.

This is perhaps not the most shocking of revelations. This entire blog is dedicated to the times my mood and brain knock me on my arse in one way or another.

But yesterday was awful for how absolute it was.

If I am a house – my brain is a house – with a kitchen and bathroom, living room, perhaps a study, and a couple of bedrooms, then yesterday was a power cut. Normally the house is alive, sometimes all the rooms are lit and full of noise and life, other times there are just one or two lights on. Perhaps something is slowly roasting in the oven for dinner.  There is life there.  A low hum of power and possibility, snaking through the whole building.

Yesterday was a catastrophic power cut.

Everything went off. Absolutely no sign of life from the outside and the very function of the house almost entirely wiped out. And I was just huddled in the corner of a room, waiting for power to be restored.

Today I found a camping gas stove and, whilst still huddled, have found a little light and warmth to pass the day with.

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Being chased down

There’s not much worse than knowing a low is coming and throwing all your energy at trying to avoid it.

At a glance, it might seem like the low itself is the worst part. But in the midst of a low, there is only the low. No real belief there was a before, very little faith there will be an after. It is, as Sylvia Plath so memorably termed it, a bell jar. Suffocating, inescapable, sealed. Not desirable, by any stretch – but it demands and enforces absolute immediacy in your relationship to it.

By contrast, the period before a low comes crashing down is marked, for me, by panic as I try and rearrange the things I want to do, and cling desperately onto the last rays of hypomania or baseline-mood. This period is increasingly characterised by me frantically trying to hang on to the good feelings; a task as hopeless as holding water in your hands. No matter how closely you grip your fingers, it’s going to run away from you eventually.

I am a control freak. I schedule my work and life carefully; I plan social stuff months in advance, I always have a to do list. My organisation in packing and filing is legendary amongst my friends and colleagues. I completed a PhD, despite cyclothymia, through relentless planning and organising. I have the past 10 years of carefully recorded personal budgets saved in Excel. I genuinely think storage solutions, year planners, week-to-view diaries, filing and planning are fun activities or items to enjoy on a quiet afternoon.

There’s a significant degree to which I struggle to accept I can’t schedule my moods, or rearrange them to suit a larger timetable. This has been exemplified in the last week or so, in which I’ve attempted to run from this mood, with varying degrees of success.

Perhaps most foolishly, every time I manage to alleviate or defer (or perhaps I should call it ‘drown out’) the low mood on the horizon, I think I’ve cracked it. Believe I’ve finally achieved just the right combination of beta blockers, cigarettes, social activities and work.  This makes the resurfacing of the low mood all the more discouraging and distressing. I become not only depressed, but angry with myself for not being able to turn back the tide. In this context, it’s not just a low mood: it’s a failure.

Living with cyclothymia is a constant tightrope; how hard should I fight and push back against my moods? How much should I accept my mood changes and aim to work around these largely unpredictable fluctuations? When I do work to manage my mood – doing things that take me away from day-to-day stresses or actively fleeing the places and people that I associate with negative moods in favour of fantastic escape – where is the line between ‘restorative, boosting well-being and net gain’ and ‘borrowing too much energy for a short term boost’? The latter being what that I find myself facing down now, with a deep ache, a sense of loss for the mood I could not cling on to and must now live without for a while.

In terms of the length of the extremes of mood, cyclothymia is fleeting. It’s getting to the point where I spend longer running from, and dreading, and pouring energy into avoiding, these moods than I do actually living through them. And that certainly isn’t living with cyclothymia, it’s fighting an unwinnable fight. I’m just not sure if I’m too stubborn, too much of a control freak, to accept I need to let go a bit to get back some sort of control.

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High Stakes Gambling

I wrote some time ago about coming across the idea that bipolar disorder[s] is an ‘allergy to stress’ and oh boy, if that’s true then the run up to a general election, whilst working 3 jobs and having no confirmed employment after August is like bathing in peanut oil/sleeping in a hay bale/other extreme exposure to common allergen.

I have been riding some fairly extreme [within the context of cyclothymia] highs and lows this past month of two. A couple of weeks ago I had one of the most glorious, free wheeling, ‘good god have you noticed how extremely attractive I am’ periods of hypomania I’ve had in literally years. In fact, it was so pure, I began to believe I wouldn’t experience its corollary.

Of course, I was wrong.

It began to float into view last week.  Like the edges of your vision darkening, or when sea mist starts to roll in and you look to the horizon and can’t quite make out where you can normally see too, but you’re sure it used to be further.

This particular low is everything the hypomania was not. Or, more accurately, the absolute inverse of everything the hypomania was. I was confident, felt sexy and sexual, energetic, funny, articulate, optimistic; now I’m defeated, heavy, pessimistic, distracted and forgetful.  Reflections, which began in conversation with a friend, on my own [experience of] gender that had seemed so intriguing and freeing, have become an internal monologue, a weight, and a source of fear.

I started smoking again. I self harmed.

It’s hard to deal with times like this. I write, often, about the ways I try and manage my cyclothymia through my lifestyle. Generally, I try to stamp down on my impulse to really let highs run unchecked and don’t indulge them by drinking and not sleeping.

But sometimes the allure is too great, the release from the everyday is so welcome, and the energy that runs through me from head to toe is just liberating.

I can’t really eat gluten without getting a lot of pain, and getting quite sick. An NHS consultant advised me to avoid it. Every now and again though, I smell fresh bread in the supermarket, or see a particularly mouthwatering-looking cake, and I think ‘fuck it, the pain is worth it’ and I gorge myself for an afternoon, or a day. As I double over in pain the next day – or sometimes just a few hours later – I usually think “I really should stop doing this, it’s not worth it”. But then the pain subsides, I stumble back out into the world and I sort of…forget.

Stress will keep coming; there will always be something to tip me over into another hard cycle. And the option to ride the wave of unsettled mood as far as it goes will keep presenting itself to me. As long as I can survive the lows, actually hang on through them to the other side, is it really the worst thing to take that pay off from time to time?


Filed under hypomania to the rescue!, self harm