Bipolar Two and writing: An unofficial diagnosis
I am, in fact, not number one.
Photo by @anthonytran from Unsplash.
“Which of my feelings are real? Which of the me’s is me? The wild, impulsive, chaotic, energetic, and crazy one? Or the shy, withdrawn, desperate, suicidal, doomed, and tired one? Probably a bit of both, hopefully much that is neither.”
General trigger warning for this entire blog post. There are mentions of suicide and self-harm.
Let me be real here; I’ve not been officially diagnosed with bipolar two, a form of bipolar disorder characterized by longer depressive episodes and short hypomanic episodes. I’m also not a medical expert, so please take this with a grain of salt.
But, bipolar two is something I’ve talked about at length with my psychiatrist and is something we’re exploring in terms of an official diagnosis, as well as medication.
But, after a week-long depressive episode, followed by last night (last night being Saturday) and this morning/afternoon characterized by a hypomanic mood (including the inability to sleep and the constant urge to do, do, do), I’m just a teensy bit irked.
Not with the teetering diagnosis. Not with my psychiatrist or the experiments with dosages or the constant up-and-downs.
Just with me. With my brain. With my body and my bones, with the ash-coated days that swim in solitude, and as dramatic as I may sound now, it doesn’t even come close to how I was feeling the past week.
Photo by @matthewhenry from Unsplash.
Then, suddenly, last night, I had the urge to bake. And I did. I made bread and cookies, and then I cleaned the kitchen and the living room and read a book. This morning, I made a traditional Japanese breakfast, moved my desk into the living room (long story), and went on a walk in the snow. I got myself coffee, which I neglected to drink all of last week. And, in doing all this, I felt like my depressive episode, as long and intense as it was, was all a sham. I still feel that way. I feel like I faked it. Or worse, that it hadn’t happened at all, and I was using my laziness as an impetus to lie in bed and watch my J-dramas.
Yes, of course, I could go on and on about the psychology behind all of this, and how it’s a long-standing trauma response developed in my childhood, blah blah blah. But what I really want to talk about is how this affects my writing.
As you can probably imagine, I didn’t do much of that this week. That’s okay; I probably needed a break. I’ve been setting impossible deadlines, writing two books in different genres, and trying (rather unsuccessfully) to freelance. Not to mention setting aside two hours to read per day, learning Japanese, and cooking dinner every night.
It’s a lot, right? So no wonder I burned out, collapsed, went on a spiral, etc. But I noticed something interesting a few days into the episode.
I still tried to write.
Maybe that’s to be expected. But I wrote every day in my journal, albeit very depressing and possibly alarming entries. I even tried to work on my next romance novel, but the words came out stunted. I grew frustrated. It got to the point where I (trigger warning) considered hurting myself, hitting myself, finding some outlet for this emotional pain I was going through.
In short, manic depression is a bitch. And, when I was discussing this with my therapist, we talked about how, even though writing for me is a fun, creative outlet, it still might be taking up too much of my time. Do you know that Stephen King quote, where he’s like, if you’re not writing, you should be reading? Well, that’s bullshit.
Sometimes, people need to turn off their brains. While I want to be exceedingly productive and churn out all the ideas I have in my head, I know that’s not feasible, especially given my proclivity for depressive episodes. As for the manic ones, I’m still not sure how to handle those. When I’m not moving or working when those happen, I’m overcome with terrifying anxiety (if I find out the secret, I’ll let you know).
Phew. And this, oddly enough, is my first attempt at real writing since the depressive episode ended last night. I’m not even sure if it’s coherent. Perhaps it’s better that it isn’t easily understandable or riddled with typos, and in that way shows how depression or manic depression or mental illness, in general, can really impact our creative outlets, our work lives, or our personal lives.
Do you have any thoughts on this? There’s no need to share since I know it’s a personal subject and that I spout way too much on the internet, for everyone to see. But I’m curious to hear about your coping mechanisms and the ways in which you forgive yourself.
Also, if you’re ever feeling down or depressed, feel free to send me a message! I’m happy to chat. If it’s serious, I urge you to call the national suicide prevention hotline at 800-273-8255, call 911, or go to the emergency room.
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