11th October 2016
In light of Mental Health Week and a recent
Facebook status of mine, I thought it would be appropriate to blog about the
goings on in my mind. “Again?” you
ask. Yes, again. But I’m not going to use euphemisms like yellow minions; or
write about the somewhat hilarious bodily malfunctions that have indirectly
happened as a result of my malfunctioning brain. No, I’m going to tell you
about the highs, and the lows, and the lack of in between bits of bipolar
disorder.
Before I go on, I should mention that while I’m
speaking about my experience in a somewhat casual manner, some things might be
triggering. And if you do find yourself associating with anything I have to
say, then please reach out for help. These things aren’t fun at all and a lot
of people really love you.
It’s taken a while for my psychiatrist to come to
this bipolar conclusion (about thirteen years – yes, the problems started when
I was around seven), so for a long time I’ve been calling my array of moods:
“depression”, “anxiety”, “hormonal bitch”, and “ridiculously-annoyingly-full-of-herself-but-also-quite-charming-bitch”.
That list is to simply categorize the extremes of
my temperaments. They are each capable of fluctuating; sometimes depending on
environmental factors and often times depending on nothing at all. I was once happily
playing a game of cards with my family, when all of a sudden I had to rush to
my bedroom so I could have a meltdown (to give you an idea of the absurdity of
it all).
They do, however, come in patterns. It’ll usually
be about three months of a high, happy, and positive Meg who is super productive,
overconfident, very talkative, extroverted, creative, and expectant of great
things to come in the universe. To accompany this jubilant state of being are
the moments of anxiety, impulsiveness, irritability and bitchiness that I could
only ever put down to as me being an estrogen-fuelled female.
To anybody who has ever lived with me, worked with
me, studied, rehearsed, or hung out with me while I’m like this, will know that
I can be a pain in the arse. I once smeared Nutella across a friend’s face
while we were doing some scene work. Why? I don’t know. I had the urge and so I
did it. Smearing Nutella on somebody’s face is one of the minor urges I’ve
experienced, along with binge eating and spending money on things that I really
don’t need.
On a larger scale of whims, I have made some pretty
significant life decisions. For example, my Aunty lovingly suggested I move thirteen
hours south to live with her. I took the offer seriously and about a month
later I was moving thirteen hours south. Six months after this move, I’d
decided I was moving interstate to Queensland (seventeen hours north of my
southerly move).
Some people tell me I’m confident and adaptable. I
honestly think I’m nuts.
I mean, sometimes it’s fun being loud and
conversational; and, equally, being an egotistical butt-sore isn’t fun because you
get people offside. But it gets worse. When I become extremely irritable and
anxious is when I’m most dangerous because rationality goes out the window. My
mind churns through a million thoughts per second and I’ll close my eyes only
to have mental images flashing really quickly in my head. It feels like bugs
are crawling under my skin, I get crazy hand tremors, and staying still feels
impossible because of the sheer amount of energy going through my body. This is
when I’m more likely to self-harm or do something really stupid, like overdose
on my medication, because I cannot control my thoughts. It feels like my head
is going to implode. Not fun. Zero out of ten. Would not recommend.
Proceeding the quick period of compulsion and zipping
activity will be about three, four, sometimes five months of intense
depression. When I was fourteen, I had spent three months in bed before being
hospitalised after a suicide attempt (to give you an idea of what it can be
like).
Depression isn’t just sadness, like most people
believe; nor does it have to be a result of something that’s happened. It’s
taken a while for my Dad to realise that my depressive states haven’t been a
result of me not getting onto the debate team, or not getting the part that I
wanted in a musical. Its actually quite pointless, and lacking in emotion all
together. Thought patterns become very unhealthy and existing becomes a
complete drag. Feeling suicidal, for me, during a depressive episode is
different to feeling suicidal during a high. I don’t feel compelled to be self-destructive;
I just become very tired, fed-up, and existential. Memory worsens, I’m
incapable of simple tasks like getting out of bed, and I remove myself from all
commitments (of which there are usually plenty as a result of the high).
It’s been quite difficult for my psychiatrist to
get to this point in my treatment; because when I’ve seen him, and told him I
was doing really well, has been when I was in a state of euphoria and I’ve assumed
that my bouts of mania were just hormones and anxiety. It’s only when I go back
to him in three months time, desperate for someone to keep me alive, that he
can obviously see that there is a problem. I also find it quite difficult to
make and maintain relationships because my life feels so turbulent and random
(thank you, patient friends, I love you). Having said that, I’m so used to this
to-ing and fro-ing that I’m actually quite scared about stability, because I
can’t remember what stability feels like. And what if I’m not stable at all?
What if it’s just a mild high and I’m destined to crash again?
The process is very tricky for anybody with a
mental illness; I am a testament to that. It feels like I have two minds and
they’re wrestling to be in the forefront of my consciousness. But if you are
struggling, I implore you to keep on keeping on; because I think it’s our
experiences that make the world a more empathetic place. And whether you know
it or not, your existences have been, and will continue to be, a motivation to
chug on for other people in similar circumstances. Hats off to you. (Group hug.)