something about being manic

I've come to call it "the gambler's itch," though I'm not sure that's appropriate for everyone. It's the first impulse to do something seeking a shot of chemical reward, or the creeping onset of a manic episode. It's winning a small amount of money on the one time you gamble on a big sports game and believe, even if only for a moment, that you could easily recreate that success given the chance. It's the afterglow of a first drink at a party, lying to yourself that you are content and don't need much more. 

Just to reiterate, or let you know for the first time, as of about two years ago, I was diagnosed as bipolar two and have presumably been living with it since my teens. Perhaps I'll get into it later on, or in later posts, but in reflection and treatment since then, had I known that it both existed and what constituted it, there were plenty of red flags that maybe I would have taken notice of back then. Probably not, twenty-year-olds think we can do anything, and when I was (or am) on a manic upswing, I sure as hell might believe that, too. 

When I was first diagnosed, I really did feel something like relief. I had only done cursory reading about the mental illness, but I had already recognized some things that were familiar. It was both frightening and encouraging to see that some of the things that I struggled with were literally "textbook" definitions. There was concrete, objective proof that there were others who might have felt and experienced things as I did. I already notice that I keep commenting on the good and then immediately feel the need to counter with the bad, so I may as well say it simply to sum it up: for every actual realization I had in this process, there was a high and low. It's like that joke about the economics professor who couldn't keep a job after he lost an arm. He was unemployable, as he was an economist who could no longer say, "on the other hand." 

Mental illness is not your fault, but it is your responsibility. I had first heard that phrase on a podcast that I adore, and it struck true then, but it didn't yet feel mine as I didn't have a defined term for what I felt. I always thought that I was just depressed. But in finally having a diagnosis, it's true that I did finally feel seen. It helped to reconcile some things and ruined relationships that I could never properly rationalize or explain (to myself or others), but there was also that other component of it: you never took care of it. You can't diagnose away the things you've said, there's still no excuse that you didn't properly contain that fire held close to you, even if you didn't know that you were capable of and actively burning others. 

So there was temporary relief. But all of those minuses began building up the more that I learned about it. The depression was now easily explained and partially remedied by the medication that I desperately needed and finally had. So where's the drawback on that one? Easily: most of it never had to have happened in the first place. I had struggled with addiction (alcoholism) horrendously for most of my early twenties, but it really seems as if it was a chicken-and-the-egg situation. I know that they were both (the addiction and the chemical depression) partners. One would have inevitably led to the other. But there's a good chance that neither would ever have gotten so bad if I had had a better grasp on this. There will always be that part of me that knows that I was too headstrong and even if I had known about the unspoken diagnosis that was there, I probably wouldn't have managed it any better than I had already failed to, but it's still just another regret to work through now. How many times can I recall waking up, or not yet being able to sleep, and having had wanted nothing more in this world than to simply just cease to exist at the very moment? How many times could I have avoided those thoughts and feelings if there was a counselor and medication on-hand, as I now have? That's living and learning, I suppose. 

Unnecessary pain that was too often felt and experienced over that decade was something to deal with, but it's less intimidating now. The reciprocal that still kind of bothers me is: sure, that depression could have been handled much better, but what about the good times? The opposite side of bipolar two is the manic part (it makes so much sense to me why it was formerly called "manic depressive," fuck is that fitting). I would never call myself the life of a party, but there are plenty of fond memories in which that I had felt exactly as such. Most of these memories are tied to me recognizing friends (and even strangers) not visibly appearing as feeling welcomed or noticing a lull in a group activity slowly letting the good times slacken, and then coming up with a fun way to rejuvenize it and succeeding. Whether it was humor or a sudden shakeup in plans, I could reliably be depended on providing that, at times. An old friend said that I inspired a sense of camaraderie in group settings. But now I grappled with the consideration of: how much of that was actually me and how much was simply slow-release mania creeping up, not having had the words to describe it? 

So those were some feelings in the immediate aftermath of getting diagnosed. It was relieving to have some constant thoughts and behavior rationalized, but I did feel a gut-punch that momentarily tainted so many good memories and moments of self-worth. I know now that both sides of those memories, the good and the bad, are still me, with or without the diagnosis. You cannot change the past, but you can be present and forge a path to a better future.