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.