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.
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.
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.
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.
