10 Years of Loyalty...

 Bought me absolutely nothing.  I was loyal to CFN and the associated businesses for 10+ years before I was discarded like a piece of garbage.  I wasn't discarded for anything I said or did.  At least that is what I was told.  I was also told it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with someone I am associated with.  That associate couldn't be seen in a picture with a CFN member without causing CFN ownership great duress.  To my surprise and dismay, I was asked to leave CFN because of that duress. A duress I was assured is justified because my associate was allegedly trying to poach CFN members.  This accusation was unfounded in truth.  It was flat out bullshit based on lies being fed to CFN ownership for reasons that remain a mystery to me.  Maybe those people were protecting themselves.  As self preservation tends to be, their self preservation was destructive and punished other people.  Maybe they have/had an axe to grind.  Maybe they felt threatened.  Whatever the reason is irrelevant now that their mission has been accomplished.  They can rejoice in my departure.

 A week before the Open started, I was asked to leave CFN. I kept a lid on my departure until the last week of my time there.  Even then, I only shared my departure with a couple coaches and one member. I shared my departure with some of the long standing members before I left CFN last Friday.  I didn't share the petty details of why I was leaving other than to say I was asked to leave and the truth would be revealed in due time.  I didn't leave CFN on my own terms or because I wanted to leave.  If anyone tries to tell you I did, they are lying.  They are full of shit!  They are only trying to protect themselves or justify their actions.  I stayed through the Open for the sake of the members.  I felt they needed a coach that would help them strategize the Open workouts and also to make sure CFN had enough judges.  Above all else, I felt I had a obligation to the members.  I can't explain why.  I just felt like I owed them something even though staying was to my own detriment.  My mental health suffered over the last month and I am just now coming out of that haze.

 I will not disparage CFN regardless of how I was treated.  I will tell the truth when asked.  I will not recommend people leave CFN out of spite.  Instead, I will tell people to spend their money based on the value they receive from CFN.  If they are happy at CFN and feel they get what they pay for, then stay.  If they are unhappy for whatever reason, then take their money elsewhere.  I will tell people where I hope to coach next.  That is not an endorsement of where I hope to coach.  It is simply a fact.  As the saying goes, "facts don't care about your feelings."

 I won't debate whether or not my departure was justified because I don't believe I was ever told the real truth.  I don't want to believe that the petty nonsense of someone in a picture is the reason I had to go after 10 years of loyalty.  Why even give a reason at that point?  Just ask me to leave.  Don't bother with a flimsy excuse or some other attempt at justification.

 If your friends willingly and knowingly text or show you pictures they know will ruin your day, I suggest you find better friends.  Who needs enemies with friends like that?  Where will those little spies be when the chips are down?  My guess is they will tuck their rat tail between their legs and take off back into the shadows.  They will run and hide like the cowards they are.  There is a reason I have a very small circle of friends and the last month only reinforced why I need to keep that circle small.  I would rather surround myself with lions that tell me the truth than live amongst a bunch of hyenas that want to pick me apart down to the bone and then fill the wounds with lies.

Another Empty Seat at the Table

 The holiday season is upon us and this year is no different than the previous two years.  As I look across the figurative table, there is another empty seat.  This year it was the passing of my father.  Last year it was my grandfather and the year before that was my stepmother.

 These three people have something in common.  I feel like they each owed me something.  Not in the terms of money, but of apologies.  I feel as though they wronged me and owe me at least one "I am sorry."  I think about this quite often and I wonder if it would change anything for me.  Their apologies won't undo the harm they caused.  Their apologies won't make it all better.  I sometimes think it would help me, but I know better by now.  Their debts are better left unpaid.  I don't want to hold an IOU against their souls, assuming there is such a thing.  I have tried for decades to let it all go and move on, but I can't seem to shake the feeling that hearing those two words would make me feel better.  That those two words would repay the debts owed.  That those two words would heal the wounds that time has not.  I'll never hear those two words from them and I guess that has to be okay.  I will pretend they said them with sincerity.  Maybe I can pretend those words into reality, I'll heal, and life will continue on until it is my turn to say them to the people I have wronged.

 Death is a relief for some people.  My father for example, wanted to die.  He couldn't bear his life without his deceased wife.  When she died, he wanted nothing more than to go with her.  It's a shame that he had children that could have used a father, but his grief was too much to live with.

My Battle with Depression Part 2

 My battle seems to have started in February of this year, but I know now that it started well before then. It likely started when I was a late teen, early adult. I have experienced many head injuries over my lifetime. The most recent was when I fell on my head at a competition. I didn't think much of it at the time, but I realize in hindsight that it was another concussion in a long line of them. I would guess I have had at least 10 concussions in my life, three of them very traumatic head injuries. I figured my body would heal itself and I had nothing to worry about. I regret not taking them more seriously until now. I regret being so flippant when I "got my bell wrung", but regrets do nothing for me now.

 I seem to have stabilized in terms of the manic and depressive episodes, but not without side effects. Some of the things I am experiencing are extreme weight loss/gain (8 lb swing in 24 hours), dizziness, blurry vision, confusion, and panic episodes due to the confusion.

 As I write this, I am in another depressive episode. I felt fine when I woke up, but cried the whole way to work. I felt like I had lost something. I felt defeated, despair, and helpless.

Scrambled Egg Brain

 I had an MRI done on my brain last Friday and it comes as no surprise that there is some permanent damage, encephalopathy is the medical term, due to multiple head injuries. I was scared of the results, but not the test. I already knew there was something "wrong" with my brain. I have spent the last ten months trying to find the why/how behind the changes in my brain. I have searched high and low for a reason. There has to be a reason. Well, I think I found the reason.

 I received the results on Saturday and immediately put my online medical degree to work. I went down a rabbit hole I almost couldn't come out of. I was, and still am, distraught over the results. Even though I knew they wouldn't be good, I didn't expect anything permanent that couldn't be treated. I have been assured by some people that I have nothing to worry about...unless I see symptoms or get hit in the head again.  I would say experiencing deep depression 44 years into my life is a symptom of a bigger problem.

 I seem to be the only person taking this seriously. The doctor tells me the risk of further damage and further deterioration is low. It's higher than the average person, but still low. Friends and family tell me not to worry about it. How can I not worry about it? I have seen what dementia does to people. That is not living. That is simply waiting to die. Waiting until someone lets me die. See, humans are different than animals when it comes to death. Animals cast off the weak. Weak animals are a liability. Humans cling to life. They aren't allowed to die unless it's a tragic death or someone else decides it's time. Humans don't get to die in peace, we die in pieces. Loved ones can't let us go. It's never the right time.

 The idea that my mental capacity may decline is alarming. I suddenly feel the need to get rich quick so I can enjoy the time I have left. I know how ridiculous this sounds considering I am only 44. I'll point people to athletes that suffered from CTE. They didn't die because of old age. They died sudden, and often, tragic deaths. I am not suggesting I'll follow in their footsteps, but there is a chance and that scares me. I am not afraid of dying, I am afraid of wilting away and dying a slow and meaningless death. I don't necessarily want to go out with a bang, but I definitely don't want to go out with a whimper.

Riding Out The Changes

 I started an anti-depression medication last week. I was hesitant to take the medication due to the multitude of side effects, some severe and permanent. I asked the doctor to explain himself and why I was prescribed the medication. He explained that my risk was low considering the dosage, my age, and my gender. Yes, biological gender is a fact and it's absolutely critical when it comes to prescription drugs. The risk goes up the older I am and especially if I was a woman.

 The doctor indicated that I wouldn't notice a significant difference for at least two weeks. Well, that hasn't been the case. I noticed a couple changes almost immediately.

 First, I had low energy and was struggling to stay awake during the day. I felt like I was heavily sedated. It showed in my posture and tone of voice. I was very monotone and indifferent to everything.

 Second, I can't sleep for shit since I started taking the new medication. I am waking up constantly throughout the night and just laying there without being able to fall back asleep. I get up earlier than usual because I am just laying in bed. I feel run down and I am not getting actual recovery sleep. My watch tells me I was awake for 4 minutes. 4 hours would be more accurate.

 Third, I am anti-social as fuck. I am not normally a social person, but this is a new level of a lack of interest in speaking with or being around people.

There Are Good Days

 Not all days are bad.  There are good days like today.  I wake up and feel good about where I am.  I laugh instead of cry.  I make eye contact and talk to people without hesitation.  I focus on the task at hand instead of survival tactics.  I joke around with people and dance like no one is watching.  I live life how I think it is supposed to be for me.  The good days are enjoyable and productive days.  I feel like I have my life back.  I don't feel like I am walking through fire just to get to hell.

 I haven't started taking the antidepressant that prescribed to me.  For the first time in my life, I am worried about the side effects.  I never really worried about side effects because I knew the medication was temporary.  10 days and I would be moving on.  This medication could be something I have to take for months, years, or even the rest of my life.  I read through 30+ pages of clinical trials.  I reached out to friends that are pharmacists.  I called the doctor and asked for alternative treatments or medications with a longer proven track record.  I know I am taking a risk by not taking the medication.  I know there is a risk that the next depressive episode is right around the corner and I won't be prepared.

 On good days, I wake up and make my bed without hesitation.  On bad days, I negotiate with myself.  I tell myself that I have to get out of bed or people will know I am sick.  I tell myself that I have to make my bed so I start the day with an accomplishment.  Washing my face is an accomplishment.  Brushing my teeth is an accomplishment.  Getting dressed is an accomplishment.  Making it to work with less than three melt downs is an accomplishment.  Commercials make me cry because they somehow remind me of something else and then I spiral.  I sob uncontrollably for a couple minutes and then it passes.  I feel tortured in those moments.  I feel like there is no way out and to some extent, there isn't.  I am medicated to not feel this way, but I still do.  I don't know how long I'll be medicated, but I hope it isn't forever.  I hate the fact that Ming has to ask if I took my medication.  It hurts a little more each time she asks, but I know she is asking out of love.

 Some people treat me differently now that they know what I am going through.  Some people avoid me entirely.  This is what I was afraid of, but I knew there were very real consequences of sharing my experience.  To be sure, this type of treatment is rare.  My closest friends offer their support and are generally just more aware.  They know that the ticking time-bomb of my personality has been diffused to some extent.  Now that people know I hear voices, they talk to me like English is my second language.  Slow and deliberate.  Like talking to a child.  I know it's not intentional, probably just a subconscious response.  People know they are talking to someone that is always toeing the line between sanity and going off the deep end.

Dragging on and on and on...

 Day 7 of this episode and it doesn't seem like there is any end in sight.  I have been consistently subdued for the last few days.  Almost like the zombie I didn't want to become.  I celebrate getting out of bed.  I celebrate making my bed.  I celebrate not crying when I talk to people.  I celebrate showing up at the gym.  I never thought these menial tasks would be something I celebrated as win for the day.  Regardless of the support I receive, I feel alone.  This is such a personal and internal struggle that it's difficult for other people to comprehend.

 I told my client about my mental health issues yesterday.  I didn't get into the details, but I felt it was necessary for him to know what I am dealing with.  Of course, he is very supportive.  That's what great leaders do.  His concern is my health.  There may come a day when I don't want to get out of bed.  A day when I can't make my bed.  A day when I can't talk to people.  He noted how busy I am and I told him that was intentional. Time spent alone in my own head is dangerous for me.  I stay busy to avoid thinking about other things.  I told him I or someone would call him to let him know when/if that day comes.  I am a liability.

 I am optimistic that the new medication will help eliminate or at least shorten the depressive episodes.  The good news is that the manufacturer offers a discount card for the first year of the prescription.  I don't know what I'll do after that, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.  I have to stop calling the meds drugs.  It's a pity party and counterproductive.  It makes me feel like less of a person.  I already feel that way, but I need the small victories to survive.

More Talking and More Drugs

 I had my third session with a specialist yesterday morning. I let him know how upset I was when we devised an emergency action plan at the end of our last call.  He asked why and all I could say is that it finally hit me that I am not well. My life has devolved into having an emergency action plan. I have had several moments like this. When things finally felt real. I think the last straw was devising a plan for when I go from okay to not okay.

 It hurts to know I am not well. It hurts when people joke about which version of me will show up. It hurts when people are dismissive of being depressed when they get sad over their team losing a game or some similar bullshit. It hurts when people joke about me getting hung up on details. It hurts to know that I may never be able to live without medication. It hurts that Ming wants to defend me when people talk about me, but she can't. She doesn't want to share my illness with people. It's none of their business, but it would certainly explain a lot. What hurts the most is that people are relieved when I walk in the room, but worried when I leave. They don't know if that is the last time they will see me. I never wanted to be a burden on anyone because of my illness. They suffer with me and I never wanted that to happen.

 Sometimes I wish I could just fight this on my own. People are afraid of me because they don't know what is happening. They fear the wrath of Cyle, which makes me sad. I know deep down that I am a kind, giving, and gentle man. I care about people. I want to improve their lives in any way I can.

 The specialist told me I have bipolar disorder with low grade mania and clinical depression. I get to take more drugs for the depression. However, those drugs cost $900/month with insurance. I would rather suffer than pay $900/month for the foreseeable future. I don't know how people pay for mental health care in this country. Who has $900 a month for a prescription for crazy people? The drug treats schizophrenia and clinical depression. It hurts to know I am lumped into that category.

 I am supposed to get blood work and an MRI for my scrambled brain. I may end up on more drugs after that. I'll be a walking medicine cabinet soon. I am trying to reframe my thinking about all of this. I'm not crazy. I didn't do this to myself. This is not my fault. I know these things are true, but it doesn't matter. I still feel like a pill popping junkie. I feel like I am no longer in control of my own life. Drugs tell me how to function. Drugs tell me what to do and say. Without drugs, I am nothing. Without drugs I can't function in society. Without drugs, I will not survive. I am now that guy who has to pack his drugs in my carry on luggage. I can't be without my drugs. I can't travel alone without a note that I may be experiencing an episode. Please call Ming so she can talk me down. Please don't hurt or startle me because I may be hearing voices. I am all the clichés we see in movies. I am a walking liability.

 Every time a doctor or specialist asks me if I have ever thought about suicide, I tell them no. That is a lie. I haven't though about doing it, but I have thought about how I would do it if I wanted to. What would be the quickest way? What would be the least painful? What would be 100% certain success (or failure, depending on how you look at it)? How many different ways are there to do it? I have visualized what it would look like to hang from a ceiling fan (this is really disturbing, I know). I think these things every time I am asked the question. I told the specialist this. I also told him I know he has to ask, but it disturbs me every time. It hurts to think that every time I leave a conversation, that is what people think. They wonder if it will be the last time they see me or talk to me. It hurts me to know that. I can't bear the thought, but how many ways are there to not be seen again?

 I am disagreeable when I am depressed. The difference between pre-medicated Cyle and medicated Cyle is that now I tell people I am disagreeable. I don't just disagree or generally act disagreeable. I tell people I am. Kind of like a beware of dog sign for humans. Don't poke the bear. I hate this about myself. I hate that I feel like I need to tell people I am disagreeable. I guess it prepares them for which version of Cyle they are dealing with.

 On day six of this episode and I feel like I am slowly emerging on the other side. I still feel like I will break down and cry at the drop of a hat, but at least I can communicate with people. I still feel subdued, but I can communicate. I can talk.

Depression is Back Again

 I thought once my meds were increased I wouldn't have the depressive episodes anymore.  I was wrong.  I was extremely agitated on Friday from the second I woke up.  That persisted throughout the day and I was really fidgety.  I couldn't sit still and my hands always had to be holding something or fidgeting with something.  When I did sit, I had the Jimmy legs.  Sitting still just wasn't an option.  This felt more like anxiety than anything else.  Anxious over what, I don't know.  Maybe it's because I am selling my rental property.  I know in my gut that is the right decision.  It's the only real stressor in my life and I'll be happy when I no longer have to worry about what comes next relative to the house.  For now, I always have to wonder what's next.

 I woke up Saturday and didn't want to get out of bed.  I was more agitated and fidgety than I was yesterday.  I knew I had to stay busy to stay out of my own head so I went to the gym as I normally do.  I pretended everything was okay.  Until it wasn't.  I had a few minutes to just sit down and I was starting to break down.  I didn't want to be there.  I wanted to be invisible again.  I wanted all of this to stop.  It's difficult to be comforted when I'm in these lows.  Ming tries to console me and tell me everything is going to be okay, but I feel like I am in hell.  My brain is trying to kill me.  It knows it has me on the ropes and I can't protect myself.

 Sunday was much of the same.  I spent the day with Ming on our 1-year anniversary.  I wouldn't have made it this far without her support.  She tries incredibly hard to help me in any way she can.  I can see the pain in her eyes sometimes.  She hates seeing me struggle.  I can see and feel her looking at me, wishing she could make it all go away.  I wish that too.  Not for me, but for her.  I feel like I am punishing her when I have bad days.  I was able to keep my agitation in check throughout most of the day, but I snapped a couple times.  One thing I am starting to notice about the depressive episodes is that I focus on the smallest of details.  Shit that is absolutely irrelevant to most people, is the most important thing in my brain.  Any sort of chaos or disorder causes me to lash out.

 I talked to my mom Sunday night and finally came clean.  I told her about my diagnosis and that I am currently in a depressive episode.  Of course, she said she felt like there was something wrong.  She noted the number of head injuries I had as a child and young adult.  I have no doubt they have something to do with what is happening to me now.  My brain chemistry is off and I'm sure getting kicked in the head and bashed over the head with a pan and a solid glass cookie jar didn't help.  "This is your brain after several concussions.  Any questions?"  My mom revealed to me that she once suffered from depression.  It started around when I experienced my last head injury.  It's understandable that a mother would be depressed seeing her son lying unconscious in a hospital bed for several days.  His scholarship gone.  His college education potentially at an end.  That makes a lot of sense.  Like many other people, she asked me to call her if I ever reached a point I felt like there was no way out.  I explained to her that calling someone is the last thing I'm thinking about.  My focus is on getting through the day and hoping the next day is better.

 The voices haven't started again yet, but I fear it's only a matter of time.  I don't know what they will say or if they will say anything.  Most of what I hear is garbled nonsense.  I only catch the occasional word and they are meaningless.  I have tried putting them together in a sentence to see if there is a message or something to decipher.  I'm hearing multiple dinner party conversations at once.  "Ball, guarantee, diving board, water, plate..."  All nonsense, but the words aren't my own.  That much I am sure.

 I spoke with a medication specialist Monday morning.  It was soul crushing.  We finished the call devising an emergency action plan.  I need an emergency action plan now.  I have to know where the nearest emergency room is.  I have to know the number for the suicide prevention hotline.  I have to know where the nearest treatment center is so I can voluntarily check myself in if things get too bad.  This is what my life has become.  I cried for several minutes after the call.  I knew I was mentally ill.  I knew I was sick.  Now, I feel crazy.  I feel like people have to protect me from myself.  I have to get blood work and some other tests to figure out just how crazy I am.  Maybe I'm not crazy.  Maybe I am just more sick than I think I am.  More tests.  More drugs.  More of this.  More of that.  More more more more of everything.

 Depression is the most isolated feeling I have ever experienced.  I don't see a way out.  I can't see shit in here.  I keep sinking like a boat anchor with no ocean floor in sight.  The only way out is hope.  I hope tomorrow is better.  I take the drugs my doctors give me and I hope.  I hope they help stop the pain.  I talk to people about what I'm going through and I hope.  I hope they can talk me out of the abyss I am in.  Help me see the light.  I try to hide and I hope.  I hope no one sees me.  I hope no one talks to me.  I put my mask on and I hope.  I hope no one discovers me or finds out who I really am.  I cry and I hope.  I hope that if I cry enough my brain will stop trying to slowly kill me from the inside.  I hope it will show me some mercy.  My brain is relentless though.  It knows no mercy.

 Every episode feels worse than the last.  My brain is scrambled.  My brain is like a Swiss watch when it's right.  Dialed in and precise.  Everything running on time and exact.  It's like a knockoff Rolex when it's wrong.  The kind you buy from a guy on the corner wearing a trench coat.  Numbers falling off the face.  A 12 where the 11 should be.  An extra 3 for good measure.  Time slowly ticking away, but just slightly out of sync with real time.  An alternate reality.  Every day of depression feels like a lost day of my life.  Smoking without the buzz.  Drinking benders when I was black out drunk waking up on a bus on my way to Mexico.  When will this end?  How can I make it stop?  Talk to someone, they say.  Talk talk talk talk...talking too much...not talking enough...talk...talk.  I talk to myself...more talking...talking to no one...more talking to myself.  Talk myself into this or out of that...I talk and I talk.  This episode is taking a lot out of me.  I am a shell of myself.  My shell is cracking.  It is Tuesday and tomorrow is more talking...talk to this person...talk to that person...no more talking.

Videos Back by Popular Demand

 No more anonymity.  I used to put videos on my YouTube channel and people generally liked them because they could connect with me and better understand how my brain works.  I want people to know that I am a real person and these are my real struggles.  It's too easy to separate or dismiss what we read and not empathize or sympathize with a person.  I don't want pity or thoughts and prayers.  That's all total bullshit that does nothing to help the person receiving them.  I want people to be able to connect with the human side of mental health struggles.

Feel free to comment on anything you read, see or hear.  This is an open forum.  Ask questions or simply show support for me or someone you know that is fighting a mental health battle.  I know this is a potential advertisement for negativity.  I accept that as a very real consequence.  However, I'll endure negative comments if just one post helps someone see the light at the end of the tunnel.  That would make it all worth it.

Mental Melt Downs

 I have been experiencing momentary temper tantrums or melt downs over the last several weeks.  They have been over insignificant shit and they continue until my attention is diverted elsewhere or I am distracted by something else.  I have never had these lapses as an adult so I can only assume they are related to the medication or the medication is revealing behaviors that were previously suppressed.

 Some examples I have experienced most recently:

 I am a very sensitive sleeper.  Sensitive to light, sensitive to noise, and sensitive to temperature.  If things aren't perfect, I don't sleep well.  For obvious reasons, summer is a real nightmare.  It's usually too hot to sleep with the windows open and if I can, I have to find a way to drown out any noise and block any light from coming into my room.  I typically start checking the temperature around 7:30 each night so I can start adjusting the AC, if necessary.  Saturday night a couple weeks ago, it was still pretty hot at 9:00.  I had a melt down even though I know it's often too hot for me to sleep.  I was convinced that if I kept looking out the window that the weather and temperature would suddenly change.  I was convinced that the AC wouldn't be enough.  I was also convinced that I wouldn't be able to sleep.  I suspect this irrational response would have continued for several minutes had Ming not been there to talk me down off the ledge.  She was able to distract me and talk me through my irrationality.

 Ming and I were at Costco a few weeks ago.  I had cherries on my list if they had them, which meant I should have been prepared for them to not have them.  Then, we got to the fruit...and there were no cherries...let the melt down begin.  Ming immediately saw my reaction and tried to distract me.  She assured me it wasn't the end of the world, but I wasn't convinced.  I wasn't convinced until I saw the peaches and then nectarines over her shoulder.  I went from about to throw a fit in the store to not caring about cherries at all in the span of about 5 seconds.  Again, this is such a trivial thing but my brain doesn't see it that way.  It sees red and the panic ensues.

 I was making my weekly chili one Sunday, just like I always do.  Except I forgot a couple key ingredients.  I realized it the second I opened the lid on my Instant Pot.  I had forgotten to add spices to the pot before I set it to cook.  I was distraught and was certain it was ruined.  Again, Ming was there to calm me down and convince me that I could add the seasoning in after the fact.  I wasn't convinced.  I "knew" it wouldn't be the same.  I was certain it wouldn't be the same.  I added the seasoning and put the lid back on, hoping it would work.  I was anxious about it until the next day when I had it for dinner.  I obsessed over it.

 I was doing laundry last weekend and was almost done folding it all and pairing up my socks.  Laundry is one of those tasks I find therapeutic.  I become transfixed on folding everything just right.  Pairing up my sock with the right sock on top of the left, never the left on top of the right.  Everything was fine until I got to the last pair of socks.  One was missing.  I spent the next 45 minutes searching for the sock.  I had my flashlight out, I was throwing things, and was literally in tears...over a fucking sock.  I was seconds away from calling Ming to ask (more like accuse) her if she knew where it was.  I was completely irrational.  I "knew" she took it for some reason.  I was convinced she had some sinister plot against me.  In one brief moment of clarity, I looked inside one pair of my compression shorts.  A sock or headband had never ended up inside them, but I figured it was worth a look.  I had found the missing sock inside my compression shorts after 45 minutes.

 I was at the gym last week, during my most recent depressive episode.  I was hearing voices in my head at the time.  I wasn't sure where they were coming from so I kept my distance (they are still new to me).  I was watching people to see if they were talking to me.  They weren't.  The voices really were in my head.  I tried to lift and keep to myself, but the voices persisted until they reached a crescendo.  I had to leave the gym in a hurry before I melted down in front of everyone.  I immediately went out the roll-up door and just started crying.  I was hyperventilating and panicking at the same time.  I just wanted the voices to stop and leave me alone.  It was too much noise in my head.  Ming saw I was in distress and immediately jumped into action to calm me down and comfort me.  She won't always be there to help me.  She can't be my crutch and that worries me.  I am worried that one of these breakdowns will happen at work or somewhere else and she won't be there to help me.  I have to be self-reliant and get these episodes under control.  I can't find a therapist that is available until next year.  I have to believe that I will be okay until then, but there is no guarantee.  I guess I just keep working with my doctor to increase the medication dosage until then.  That seems like a dead end proposition that is only masking the issue.

 I don't know if these incidents are another symptom or just coincidence.  I never had outbursts like them before.  I try to not look for new things to be wrong with me, but they are hard to miss when they are out of character when compared to the last several years.  I am still tying to pinpoint what changed and when.  I can't help but to problem solve myself.  Ultimately, I realize it doesn't matter what changed or when.  I have to deal with the here and now.  Some days are better than others and that's the best I can ask for.  I just wish the bad days weren't as bad as they are.  I suppose I shouldn't complain since I can still function most of the time.  Granted, it's in a limited capacity, but I can still function.

 I am debating adding videos to the blog in place of writing.  I desperately want to put a face with a name or at least a voice to what I am going through.  I truly believe sharing my experience with mental health can help people.  It's hard for people to connect with written words only.  It doesn't feel like it's something real.

Surviving More Depressive Episodes

 I thought I was done with depression once I was medicated.  I was wrong.  I am in the midst of a depressive episode as I type this.  It has been like this since last Thursday.  I think it peaked late Saturday, but I saw very little improvement yesterday or today.  I don't want to be at work today, but at least I wanted to get out of bed.  That's a step forward out of this current episode.  I didn't want to get out of bed on Saturday.  I didn't even want to exist.  I wanted to be invisible again.  It's incredibly difficult to coach when I feel this way.  I am trying to help people when I can't even help myself.  I am trying to make members lives better while I am slowly falling apart on the inside.  Some notice the difference, some don't.  The people close to me see it the second I walk in the door.  I feel and look like a zombie.  I am emotionless. I am not receptive to conversation.  I am much more passive and agreeable.  I don't think I am instinctively disagreeable, but I am skeptical of most people.

 People ask me what depression feels like.  Some people have equated it to the loss of a pet or family members.  I have lost both and those experiences aren't remotely close to how depression feels.  Depression feels like my brain is trying to kill me.  It's death by a thousand cuts, but from the inside.  My brain doesn't want me to get better.  It wants me to give up.  It has conversations in my head that aren't my own.  Not so much hearing voices, but the conversations just aren't centered around my thoughts.  I suppose that is hearing voices to an extent.  I never thought I would be fighting myself to survive each day.

 I used to dismiss people that suffered from depression and killed themselves as selfish and cowardly.  To those people, I sincerely apologize.  Now that I am battling depression, I get it.  I understand why they did what they did.  I understand how they finally had enough.  I understand what drove them to make such an apparently irrational decision.  Unfortunately, it's entirely rational when you just want it to stop.  You want your brain to stop telling you things.  You want your brain back on your side.  You want your brain to function like it's supposed to (however that is).

 I am mentally ill.  I am humiliated.  I am scared of what may come next.  I have to accept the fact that I am not well.  I hate that I am this way.  I have not accepted who I am and who I have become.  I have tried to go back in time and think of when I wasn't sick.  Recent behavior changes are alarming.  The temper tantrums.  The conversations in my head that are not my own.  My brain telling me to stop everything.  My brain is an asshole again and I want it to stop.  I need it to stop, but it won't.  It persists in telling me I am sick and must accept that I can't function without medication.  It tells me that I am less of a man because I need help.  That I am a coward for not solving this problem on my own.  In my gut, I know these things aren't true.  Ming assures me these things aren't true.  I know my gut is right.  I know she is right.  My brain just isn't convinced.  It sees weakness and capitalizes on it at every turn.

 Ming told me yesterday to call her if I ever reached the point where I had enough.  I broke down in tears because it just doesn't work that way.  I wish it did, but depression doesn't work that way.  Depression is irrational.  I want it all to stop more than anything I have wanted in my entire life.  Stop torturing me as I try to survive another day.  Depression doesn't care who it hurts.  It doesn't care about the trail of destruction it leaves.  It is a mental hurricane and acts without compassion or remorse.  The lives it takes are inconsequential.  It will continue its destructive path until it stops by force through medication and treatment or by attrition leading to death.  These facts are true no matter how I look at them.  I am not in control of my illness yet.  I am unstable and uncertain.  I am scared of what symptom of my illness will expose itself next.  It could be tomorrow or a week from now, but I have this feeling of impending doom.  I am fighting for my life in a way I never thought I would have to.  I am fighting to exist in a world that equates depression to sadness or the death of a pet or family member.  I would take those things a thousand times over compared to the hell I am in right now.

How Much Information Should I Share?

 I have debated about this for several weeks.  I would like to share more about who I am and what I am going through.  I would prefer to share videos of my experience rather than write about them.  Unfortunately, doing so could potentially ruin my career.  Sharing who I am could jeopardize everything I have worked for, which is a shame.  I still have to wear a mask in a way.  I hate hiding who I am and my struggles with mental health.

 Talking openly about mental health is still taboo to an extent.  We read about athletes and celebrities sharing their struggles and they are lauded as heroes.  The common man can't really do that.  We aren't seen as heroes, we're seen as weak and a potential liability.  What company wants a potentially unstable person working for them?  Athletes are private contractors, I am not.  I can't decide to withdraw from a tournament and forgo a potential purse.  I can't go into my shell for several days and hope to still have a job.  Calling in sick is the last thing on my mind when I am battling through a depressive episode.

 I would like to believe that most people within my organization would be supportive.  I do fear the perception that I am unstable or I might "go off my meds".  I suppose both of these concerns are fair.  I am unstable when I am off my meds.  I am irritable, irrational in some instances, unpredictable, and sporadic in my behavior when I am not medicated.  That version of me is intolerable for some people.  That version of me makes some people uncomfortable.  The so called "new me" is still prone to outbursts of unpredictable behavior, but they are few and far between.

 I still miss the manic episodes.  They were a welcome distraction from reality.  A journey down the path of possibilities and impossible or improbable outcomes.  The manic episodes were some of the rare times that I was a dreamer instead of doer.  I wasn't an engineer for a few days and that was a relief.  I could process information in the abstract instead of confining myself to a binary decision making process.  The high I felt is not comparable to any other natural high I have ever experienced.  I truly felt like I was unstoppable.  I felt like I could stay awake for days and still function at a high level.  I felt like I was on a different level than other people.  Not superior, but operating at a higher level.  I could use 20+ hours of a 24 hour period.  At least, I thought I was using 20+ hours.  What's not to like about that?

 In addition to the many challenges I face with my mental health, I am also a recovering alcoholic.  The term "recovering" is unfortunate, but I suppose I'll always be recovering from that addiction.  I was recently invited to a wedding.  I was agitated the entire day.  I had this nagging feeling that I wanted a drink.  I knew the temptation would be all around me.  I also knew that Ming wouldn't let it happen, but alcoholics always find a way when there is a need.  I spotted the bar the moment we walked into the venue, but resisted the temptation and opportunity.  Then we sat down at the table and there was a champagne glass in front of me.  I kept nudging it further and further away from me, but didn't flip it upside down like I should have.  Partly because I still wanted the chance at a drink, but mostly because I didn't want to raise suspicion with Ming's parents at the table.  "So...your boyfriend is a recovering alcoholic...that's nice."  I nudged the glass further away after it was filled with champagne, but I didn't stop thinking about it the rest of the night.  When I told Ming about it later, she asked why I didn't tell her.  My rationale is simple.  She or someone else won't always be there to save me from myself.  Someone won't be there to rescue or protect me.  I have to be strong enough to do that on my own.

 I haven't historically been a believer in support systems.  I never thought they were necessary.  I still feel that way to a degree.  Once I have a handle on something, I move on.  I don't look to other people to keep me honest or keep me out of trouble.  The last 6-8 months have changed my view a little bit, but I know (or at least I think) I have things under control.  I don't know what happens now if I go off my meds.  I imagine there will be some residual still in my body so I wouldn't expect an immediate reaction.  There is a part of me that is tempted to go off of them just to see what happens.  There is also a part of me that fears the worst.  What if I immediately fall into depression and don't want to go back on my meds?  What if I have a manic episode and like it too much?  I won't test those waters for now, but there may come a day that I feel I have everything under control...until I don't.

What is "Normal"?

 I get this question from people a lot.  I understand what they are asking, but I don't know how to answer the question.  I don't know what the baseline is and "normal" is very relative.  I got used to the way I behaved and just figured that was how everyone behaved.  I only recently discovered that most of my behavior and thought processes were abnormal and not generally acceptable.  I didn't think the way other people did.  I didn't act the way other people did.  I didn't see things the same way other people did.  I saw the world through a different lens.  I reached a point where I would just tell people to "take it or leave it" this is who I am.  I didn't realize there was something brewing in my brain.  I didn't know there was some sort of chemical imbalance.  I don't know why it took so long to finally manifest itself into a full blown depressive episode followed by a manic episode.

 I recently learned, inadvertently, that my highs are called manic or hypomanic episodes.  I also inadvertently discovered the difference between Bipolar 1 and Bipolar 2.  As I have stated previously, I intentionally avoided researching the disorder so my behaviors were authentic and not based on some preconceived notion.  I wanted to avoid behavior bias.

 I suppose it's fair to acknowledge when I was first exposed to BPD.  I was watching an episode of Shameless and I saw similarities between my behavior and that of two characters on the show.  I thought, "that must be miserable".  I mostly dismissed it as theatrical license.  I assumed at the time that it was dramatized for television/entertainment purposes, which it was compared to my experience (this is in hindsight).  I thought to myself, "I wonder what it's like to be around someone like that?".  Little did I know that I was that person.

 I dismissed what I had seen on Shameless until everything came to a head several months later.  I could see distinct and troubling behavior patterns that I no longer had control over.  I thought the highs were just me being super productive and having a lot of energy with hundreds of ideas about shit that was out of left field.  I would negotiate with myself during the lows and try to hide it from people.  I would brush it off as just being tired after a night of little sleep.  I never knew the cause of my poor sleep.  I just assumed it was not being comfortable or being too hot.  I felt the despair and hopelessness.  I felt the survival instincts kick in and the first thought of, "just make it through the day" enter my mind.  That was six months ago.  That episode lasted nearly two weeks.  Each day getting progressively harder to function.  Harder to even feel like I was human.  I had become feral in some ways, just relying on instinct.  I was very fortunate to not be working at the time.  I can't imagine what it would have been like to have work when I was barely holding on to reality.

 Depression doesn't work the way most people think it does.  People see a person that from all outside appearances, has it all.  I want for nothing, which is something I worked very hard to accomplish.  With depression, I am not just sad for a couple days.  I am literally telling myself to "just make it through the day."  There were a couple times that I thought, "just make it stop."  Make it go away.  I was tired of the constant struggle and fighting.  I was tired of negotiating with myself.  I was tired of the constant game going on in my head.  I couldn't see a purpose.  I kept asking myself, "why me?".  Hadn't I suffered enough?  Hadn't I already paid my dues?  Then, I realized nothing I had ever been through mattered at this moment.  "Why not me?" was a better question.  I have made it my mission to not only survive, but to thrive.  I am not my disorder.  I am not a victim.

 One of the more recent developments is the change in my emotional response to people.  I am mostly indifferent to people when I think about their death or not having them in my life.  I have no sense of loss or sadness when I think about most people.  They have become inconsequential.  I know in my gut and in my heart that I would be sad or otherwise mourn their loss, but my brain dismisses them as non-essential or unnecessary.  I shared this with Ming over the weekend and she was visibly upset.  She wouldn't admit it at first, but I picked up on the visual cue (which is abnormal for me) and persisted in asking her to communicate with me.  I knew what I said would upset her.  Frankly, it would upset most people to hear that I don't care if they live or die.  I know in my gut that is wrong, but my brain is indifferent.  There is still a disconnect there, which makes me believe the medication level isn't quite right yet.  I feel like I have leveled off just below the happy medium we have been working towards.  I will continue to document what is happening and let the week play out.

Finding the Right Dosage

 I increased the dosage from 50mg to 100mg last night.  I suspect it will be a couple days before I notice any appreciable changes.

 I noticed some changes after I increased the dosage from 25mg to 50mg, but that took about a week.  Coincidentally, that is about the time I started to spiral down for 5 days before slowly recovering.  I was functional at the lowest point, but just barely.  My brain started to suggest destructive behavior and it took every ounce of self control to resist those suggestions.  I was a bit relieved to find I still had some control.  I called these suggestions "mean" because they were mean things to do to myself and indirectly to others.  As a recovering alcoholic, there is always a risk of returning to that destructive behavior.  That seed was planted decades ago and my brain seems to prey on that addiction.

 My brain suggests going back to drinking and weekend long benders as a way to forget about my struggles.  I know in my gut that this is the wrong path.  Instinctively, I know where that would lead.  Unfortunately, my brain knows and doesn't care.  It sees relief and there is a part of me that wants that.  There is a part of me that wants to drown out what my brain is telling me.  A part of me that despises my brain for being such an asshole.

 I shared these mean thoughts with Ming and she was understandably upset.  She apologized for crying and expressing her emotions.  I assured her there was no reason to apologize.  She should never feel guilty about expressing herself, but I understand she is coming from a relationship that didn't permit such behavior.  Her response upset me in that I hated the fact she had to hide how she felt in the past.  That is something we are working on as partners.  I am very open and she isn't used to that from her partner, which is shameful.  Being more open is one of the many things I learned from my marriage.  I restrained myself because I didn't think my ex-wife could handle the raw truth of my upbringing and my thought process.  I didn't think she could handle the instability of who I am.  I'll never know if that is true or not, which is one of the many failures on my part.

 I still felt low at 50mg.  In fact, I had a depressive episode that lasted about five days.  At the peak, I was terrified of the potential interaction with people.  Days like that are difficult to navigate.  I have to go to work, but that's where the commitments end.  After that, I owe nothing to anyone.  I was hopeful that 100mg would help bring some relief because I was running out of options in my head.  Of course, my brain being the asshole that it is, had solutions for me.  It doesn't care about the long term damage those solutions could lead to.  Maybe I am expecting some sort of panacea at 100mg.  Maybe I am expecting too much from myself and the medication.  Every day feels like a multiple choice test.  Will I or won't I sink into depression?  That is my only concern now.  The highs are long gone, which is somewhat unfortunate.

 I started 100mg last Tuesday.  I didn't notice much difference for a couple days, but I can feel the difference now after four days.  Despite not sleeping well for a couple days, I am still mellow, calm, and measured.  I am not animated.  I am not agitated.  I wouldn't say I am necessarily happy, but I am not unhappy.  I am not anxious.  I am not on edge.  I am less unpredictable.  My response to people is more in the realm of social acceptability.  One notable exception to that is my willingness to walk away from people mid-sentence or mid-conversation without warning.  I walk away as soon as I lose interest.  This is a bit socially awkward for people, but I guess it's the new normal for me.  It will hurt some people, but I guess they should be more interesting and I wouldn't walk away.

 I met with my doctor yesterday and he wants me to stay at 100mg for now.  He can't say for sure if we have found the right amount, that depends mostly on me.  There isn't some sort of test we can run to figure out if I am in the middle of the curve or more to one side of that curve.  I don't like the prospect of having to be medicated forever, but I also don't like the idea that the next low could be the last low.  We frequently think we are in control until we're not.  That is my fear.  I am worried that I think I am okay until I'm not.  I worry that the line won't be as blurry as I think it is.  That I won't teeter on some imaginary boundary between life or death.  I worry that the line will be clearly defined and finite.  That my brain will be more decisive and seek finality.

 My brain has become a weapon of sorts.  It is armed with too much information and time.  It is nefarious and cruel.  It is also kind and gentle.  It is intelligent and affectionate, if only just a little.  It is capable of many great things and destructive things at the same time.  I want to think that it only wants to help me, but I know better by now.  It has its own plans and thoughts that I know nothing about.  It often does its own thing even when it knows better.  My brain has become more like a second person to me.  A person that needs to be properly supervised and guided.  I find it unsettling that part of me is unpredictable.  I am optimistic that this will change as my brain chemistry changes.  I hope that the two finally merge into one cohesive person.

Struggling Through the Lows

 I have been in a low (I don't know what else to call them) since Sunday, July 18th when I came to the realization I have to be medicated.  It hadn't really hit me until I was talking it through with my girlfriend (I'll call her Ming to protect her identity).  I openly sobbed when it hit me.  I have been very open with Ming about my mental health struggles and what it could mean for her.  If I learned one thing from my failed marriage, it's that communication is critical.  Even when that communication is uncomfortable, partners must have open and transparent discussions.

 I have fought so hard to conceal who I really am and now I have to be medicated to actually function.  These are polar opposites.  I was cognizant of my brash personality and was able to keep it in check most of the time.  Now, I have lost that filter and seemingly, the desire to filter.  My brain tells me what to say and when to say it.  It lacks tact or forethought.  It lacks compassion, sympathy or empathy.  It doesn't care about the bridges it may burn or the destruction it may cause.  I am no longer in charge.

 Ming asks a lot of questions about what I am experiencing.  She asks out of love and in an effort to understand.  I look at it as navigating my seemingly unpredictable personality, but she doesn't see it that way.  She could walk away at any time and I am glad she hasn't.  It helps me tremendously to verbalize what I am experiencing.  She blames herself for my realization.  It's not her fault at all.  My brain just hadn't processed the information yet.  It hadn't put me in that box yet.  It doesn't tell me to think about it when I am in my home box.  My brain doesn't wander like it did before I was medicated.  It doesn't try to process multiple trains of thought.  During the lows, my brain focuses on survival.  If I can just survive the day, I will be okay.  Tomorrow is another day.  Tomorrow could be another low or I could get some reprieve.

 Ming has been amazing throughout the entire process of the diagnosis and treatment.  She is incredibly kind, loving, patient, and comforting.  She reassures me that none of this is my fault.  I want to believe her.  I try to believe her.  I tell her I do, but I just don't feel that way.  I keep thinking there was somewhere along the way that I could have prevented this.  The problem solving part of my brain keeps telling me that I just have to find enough of the unknowns and I will then be able to solve the equation.  Life is not a series of equations though so the engineer part of my brain is useless to me here.  Now that my brain is in charge and dictates the terms of engagement, my engineer brain compartmentalizes and puts me in the appropriate box for the situation. 

 I am coming out of the low as I write this on July 22nd.  I am not completely out of the woods.  I can still feel the anxiety of talking to people.  In fact, I have been terrified the last couple days that I would have to actually speak with someone.  I put my literal and figurative mask on at work and interact as little as possible.  The people I work with can never see what is behind the figurative mask.  I can't let them see behind the mask.  It would possibly ruin or prematurely end my career.  I can't be myself and that is extremely frustrating and painful.  I have to keep up the façade for 9+ exhausting hours.  Thankfully, my brain puts me in the work box while I am at work so I don't have time to wallow in my own pity.  The work box simply won't allow such behavior.  It has no time or space for emotions or feelings.  This part of my brain is mean.  This part of my brain is a real asshole.

 I cried in the car yesterday on the way home from work.  The thought of facing more people at the gym terrified me as it had for the last couple days.  I didn't go to the gym Tuesday because of it.  It was the first time the illness stopped me from doing something.  I cried out of frustration, guilt, and anger.  I was frustrated and angry that I have to fight so hard just to function on a daily basis.  I was angry that I let the illness win, if only for a day.  I felt guilty for letting it win.  I cursed at myself.  I berated myself for being weak.  I berated myself for not fighting back.  I felt like nothing.  I felt like less than nothing.  I was no longer capable of controlling my life because of the illness.  None of this is true of course, but it's easy to get caught up in negative self talk when I am simply trying to get through one day at a time.

Becoming Medicated

 I started medication for Bipolar Disorder four weeks ago.  I didn't notice much of a difference at first, but other people did.  I was withdrawn, quiet, glazed over look in my eyes, and generally kept to myself.  This wasn't entirely unusual, but it was more extreme than normal and was making people uneasy (I didn't know that at the time).  It made me incredibly sad to know that people were in essence, afraid of me.  People were walking on eggshells around me.  They didn't know when or if I was going to unleash on them.  What they didn't know is that I didn't even see them.  It was like they didn't exist.  They were just a faceless blob of no consequence to me.

 I noticed changes in my behavior after about two weeks, just before I doubled the dosage.  I wasn't seeing people.  I would see a person, but there was no recognition of their relative importance.  I was indifferent to everyone I saw.  It was as though my brain did a quick risk analysis and determined there was no threat.  Once it was determined there was no threat my brain told me to ignore the person.  It's worth noting that I refer to "my brain" as though it's a separate entity from Cyle the person.  I feel like I am the vessel my brain controls, not the other way around.  It's not like I am out of control, it's that my brain is in complete control of everything I do.  It's simply processing information and telling me what to say or do.  I don't have control over it anymore.  I say something if it tells me to say something.  I stay silent if it tells me there is nothing to say.  I no longer feel like I have free will to correct my own brain.  I have become somewhat robotic in my behavior.

 People and places are now put into specific boxes by my brain.  Work has its own box.  The gym has its own box.  Home has its own box.  Costco has its own box.  Every place, set of tasks, and people have their own boxes.  My brain has become more utilitarian than it was before.  It discards people as soon as they are no long useful to it.  When a conversation ends, it is the end of that person.  I don't give them a second thought.  These boxes used to overlap, but that has changed in recent weeks.  Each box is exclusive and independent of each other.  They don't cross pollinate.  This is a very foreign feeling to me.  On one hand, I like the level of focus it gives me.  My mind doesn't wander.  I can't get distracted even if I try.  On the other hand, I hate the fact that I have to be mindful of the changes.  I have to acknowledge people and that they have feelings.  I have to do socially acceptable things.  I have to conduct myself in a way that is viewed as normal behavior.

 One of the challenges I am experiencing is that disorder throws me into a fit.  Seeing or finding things where they don't belong just triggers something that my brain disapproves of.  It's OCD on steroids.  Things must happen in sequence or chaos ensues.  Left sock, right sock.  Right pant leg, left pant leg (has to be the opposite of the socks for sake of efficiency).  Left shoe, right shoe.  I have to start over if any of the foregoing occurs out of sequence.  Light switch three times and it has to end in a way that is intended to be off.  Lights controlled by multiple switches are a nightmare.  Things must be in their proper place or all hell breaks loose.  Again, this isn't entirely new, it's just more pronounced than before.  I used to just put things back where they belong and ask people to do the same.  Now I tell them exactly where shit goes and berate them when it doesn't get there even before they have a chance to put it there.  My brain tells me "later" isn't good enough.  It has to happen now.  My brain can't tolerate disorder where there clearly should be order.

 What I thought were mood swings on a particular day are really episodes.  I go through episodes of high and low that have become more pronounced in the last six months.  The medication is currently holding somewhere between low and middle of the road, but closer to low than anywhere else.  I am subdued and docile.  I am measured in my tone and my actions.  I am less animated.  I am not balanced.  On the off hand that I have a bit of a high, the feeling is fleeting.  It might last a couple hours after which I am exhausted.  It sucks a lot of energy out of me.  The lows are easy to fuel because my sole focus is survival.  I am optimistic this will change next week when I up the dosage to 100mg from 50mg.  I am not sure I will like the person I become, but it's hard to imagine it being worse than I am.

Navigating Life with Bipolar Disorder

 I was recently diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.  With the benefit of hindsight, I saw this coming.  I will preface this with saying that I have not researched the disorder, which is entirely intentional.  I didn't want anything to shape my behavior.  I didn't want to plant the seed and then either convince myself I did or didn't have the disorder.  Instead, I have decided to share what I am experiencing as I experience it.  No filters.  No bullshit.  Nothing but objective data and shared experiences.

 At first, I noticed wild mood swings from extreme highs to debilitating lows.  I initially thought I was just working through a bout of depression.  Then, I starting keeping an audio journal and really analyzing my past behavior.  I also starting talking to people about what it's like to be around me and talk to me.  They noted very distinct behavior patterns, changes in my body language, changes in my level of engagement, and varying degrees of predictability.  I noticed some of these changes when I started going back through my internal catalogue of clear mood swings (or at least what I perceived as mood swings).

 The highs used to be incredible.  They were something I looked forward to.  I thought I was operating on a higher level during the highs.  I felt like I was processing more information when in fact, I was stuck in an infinite loop.  I would keep cycling through the same ideas and thoughts without reaching a conclusion.  I could only settle on a certain thought or idea for a few minutes if I was lucky.  Up until about six months ago, I could see the highs coming.  I could predict them with about 95% accuracy within a day or two.  I could feel a shift in my thinking.  I would notice that I couldn't keep or even make eye contact with people (it would distract me from thinking about everything in my head).  I could feel that I wanted to do 100 things at once.  I would be mentally exhausted by the end of the day but I couldn't sleep more than a couple hours a night.  My brain was stuck in that infinite loop until my body just decided it had enough.

 I recall having these highs over the last 20 years since a severe head injury.  They increased over time in frequency, duration, and intensity.  They reached a point at the end of April this year that I could no longer predict when they would happen and how long they would last.  That didn't convince me it was time to get help.  I thought I could still manage them whenever they came.  In my mind, they weren't a bad thing.  I figured I had been through worse and I didn't need help.  More importantly (at least in my head), I didn't want to be labeled or have to go on medication for the rest of my life.  I didn't want to become a pill popping robot or mindless zombie.

 The lows were usually brief and pretty manageable because they didn't typically lead to me staying in bed with my head buried under the blankets.  That changed in May after a high.  The shift to low was immediate.  I usually had a couple days to come down and prepare for the low that I knew was coming.  There was no such luck in May.  I didn't want to be seen or heard.  I didn't want to talk to anyone.  I didn't want to interact with anyone.  All I wanted to do was survive the day.  I kept thinking that tomorrow will be better.  I'll wake up and it will all be better.  Then, it wasn't.  The days kept stringing together.  They kept getting longer and more difficult to navigate.  Surviving was the only thing I could think about.  I knew another high was coming eventually.  I always got by knowing that another high was around the corner.  I lived for those highs.  I needed them like I once needed alcohol.  I needed them like it was a drug I couldn't live without.  Three days become five.  Five became eight.  Eight became ten.  I was spiraling and I couldn't see the bottom.  Was I at the bottom?  Did this go deeper?  Would I get out?  Could I get out?  If so, how and when?  The only thought was to survive the day until the next high came.

My Battle with Depression

 Battling depression is an interesting and frustrating endeavor.  Most people ask "why" someone is depressed.  If it were that simple, I wouldn't be depressed.  I don't choose to feel this way.  I don't like the sudden urge to break down crying for no apparent reason.  Make no mistake, there are no thoughts of harming myself or anyone else.  I have never had those thoughts.  Those are too extreme and irrational to me.  That wouldn't solve the problem.  This is the puzzle I have taken apart and put back together hundreds of times in my head only to find out I am missing some pieces.  Not only am I missing pieces, my puzzle looks nothing like the picture on the box.

 People associate depression with sadness.  I am not sad.  I was sad when my pet rabbit died.  I wasn't sad when my dog died, I was relieved for her and for me.  I wasn't sad when I went through my divorce, I was disappointed in myself.  I was sad when my grandmother died.  I wasn't sad when my stepmother died.  I can differentiate between sadness and something far deeper than being sad.

 My job is to identify and solve problems, but what do I do when I can't identify and solve my own problems?  It's not a feeling of hopelessness or helplessness.  It's more like a feeling of emptiness.  A feeling like I have nothing and everything at the same time.  If zero was an emotion, I would be zero.  Neither positive nor negative, just existing.  It's not a feeling of I have nothing to live for.  I have plenty to live for, I just don't know what those things are.  More importantly, I don't know if those things matter more to me or to someone else.  Should they matter to anyone, including me?

 I don't have a spouse or children.  Maybe that's part of the problem.  I think some part of me wants to live through their imaginary accomplishments.  Some part of me wants my legacy to live on in some way.  Who will know what I have accomplished?  What have I really accomplished?  Why does that even matter?  Does it matter?  Should it matter?  If it does matter, should accomplishments really be the driving force behind living?  That hardly seems like a purpose.

 Material items are meaningless to me and I detest people that brag about them.  That makes me wonder if accomplishments are similarly meaningless.  Am I trying to achieve some form of recognition and bragging rights with my accomplishments?  This is an interesting proposition considering I don't talk about my accomplishments.  I don't tell people about what I have done.  That feels like bragging to me, which again, I detest.

 I have had people tell me that I like the attention I get at the gym.  I hate getting attention.  I hate the fact that people even see me at all.  I don't want to be seen or heard.  I have been that way since I was a child because not being seen or heard is safe.  I just want to occupy space, but remain invisible.  If I could have a superpower, it would be invisibility.  Flying would be a close second.

 Making money and traveling aren't accomplishments.  Those are tasks.  Graduating college is a task.  Getting a promotion or raise at work are both tasks.  Retiring young is a task.  They are a result of my knowledge and effort.  Working is a task.  Effort is a task.  I don't view those as accomplishments, but maybe I should.  Maybe these things would help give me the validation I seem to be looking for.

 The thought of death doesn't bother me, but I think there is a subconscious dread of dying alone.  Who will be there when I die and why?  Will whoever is there actually care or will they be there because they feel obligated?  I think there is a part of me that questions how genuine people really are when they express themselves.  Do they really care or are the things they say just out of social acceptance?  We are expected to offer condolences when someone dies.  What if I really don't care?  It's not socially acceptable to say that I don't care about their loss.  Their loss is meaningless to me.  It makes no difference in my life.  I realize that is selfish, but I am a selfish person.  I openly admit that to people.  I don't try to hide my disinterest in people and their random musings.

 As my most recent episode of depression has dragged on, I have stopped looking for answers.  Some days are better than others for no apparent reason.  I have tried to pinpoint triggering events or even people.  People in general bother me.  I don't trust them.  I don't enjoy having to consider how they feel.  I feel like I am constantly manipulating people to bend to my will.

 There is a part of me that thinks I am struggling with my own mortality.  Not in the sense that I will die, I know I will, but in the sense the my body is slowly deteriorating.  I can't physically do the things I want to do.  My body is rebelling.  Maybe from years of use or abuse.  Maybe because that is the circle of life.  Either way, I am having a hard time accepting it.  I believe my body will do what I want it do just because I have the will to make it so.