Suddenly, Mania!

I lie in bed, doing everything in my power to get comfortable. Rolling over for the umpteenth time, eyes closed, I think once again about the benefit of sleep versus the hours left in the night before my daughter wakes up and my dog needs her morning walk—a walk that I, too, cherish, for it is time moving and being physically active. Physical activity, as I’ve long known, helps with mental activity, and gods know I’ve been doing everything in my power as of late to get my mind activated. It seems to have worked, now, as I lie in bed, wondering when I might fall asleep.

            It’s no good. I open my eyes as I move my left leg, flexing the muscles in my inner thigh in a vain effort to somehow, magically, build muscle that has atrophied due to past injuries and then never come back. In my mind, my thoughts are a jumble. I have so many ideas in my mind and they all want to come forth. They are like a crowd of people at the mall on Black Friday, moments before the doors open; my thoughts are fighting with each other for dominance and I cannot distinguish one particular topic from another because they may as well be brawling. Imagine a group of people, three to five of them, grappling about for the top spot in a tournament. They’re all in the pile and as you look at them, you can’t tell who that left foot or right hand belongs to. In the way that body parts become intermingled in a wrestling match, so, too, are my thoughts difficult to separate and identify.

            Earlier in the night, I wrote a blog entry that felt more like a letter, so I titled it “A Letter to An Old Friend.” In my head, it feels like that should have broken the dam that holds my thoughts back; it feels like I should now be able to pull one topic from the tangled mess of knotted strings that are, indeed, my thoughts. Pulling on one string only brings the entire ball of strings forward, as they’re wrapped around each other and it may take a great deal of effort to wean one string from the other, or to pry one man’s arm from between the other two men’s legs—choose your own analogy to go with, here, as I’m sure I could come up with more.

            I took my medicine late. I discovered the time at midnight when my friend, three hours away, mentioned that it was 3am. I looked at Randy and told him we needed to go to bed and it was after that when I took my medication for the evening and when I found that I was unable to sleep, I thought at first that it was because of the activating side effect of the medication. I’m no longer so sure and I’m relatively convinced, actually, that I’m experiencing a rare and wonderful manic episode.

            Those of you who have bipolar might think, “What the fuck is wonderful about being manic?” Those of you who don’t have bipolar might think, “How is it wonderful if you can’t sleep?” I suppose, given the myriad of thoughts coursing through my mind, I may be able to disentangle this particular topic and tell you exactly what I think is wonderful about being manic.

            To begin, I’ll tell you about my struggle with depression, which began, as far as I can tell, when I was 7 years old. Prior to this age, I’d lived with my grandparents, who took great care of me and tended to my every need. When I was 7, going on 8, however, my mother gained custody of me and I went to live with her. It was something I thought I wanted, at the time. It didn’t take me too long to figure out that it really wasn’t something I wanted, but I couldn’t go back as easily as I’d left from my grandparents’ home.

            I felt down and blue. I felt angry and upset and frustrated. I felt a myriad of negative emotions and the vast majority of them were based on self-loathing. I had one friend at any given time and there was no guarantee that she was even a decent child, as one of those “friends” stole a birthday present from me when I turned 8… or 9. The age isn’t as important as the act; it certainly did nothing for my self-esteem, which could only continue to plummet after I finally moved back in with my grandparents and was only able to bond with the outcasts at school and thus, I was still shunned and had a grand total of two friends—100% better than previously, to be sure, but I wanted to be well-liked and accepted by everyone. What kid doesn’t want acceptance by their peers?

            So it was that depression was a constant in my life from an early enough age. Relief from that depression came in some kind of extreme. When I was happy, I was elated. I was on top of the world and nothing was going to get me down! Except for that pesky depression, always crouching on the sidelines, ready to swoop in and lay waste to all the brightness and joy I was feeling previously—and why? Because what I felt was not true happiness. What I felt was mania. So it is that I tell you, mania has been a friend to me except when it has helped me spend money frivolously and impulsively. That kind of helpfulness, I do not need.

            It turns out that explaining was rather easier than I thought—or perhaps I’ve simply reached the end of that thread and thus the end of my thinking capacity at this time. After all, it’s after 2:30am now and I do feel the need for sleep, though my body remains restless and my mind active. I’m glad to have time-stamped this within the writing, as I intend now to leave it alone until later in the morning, when I can read through it and make sure it is sensible, rather than some inane ramblings of a manic woman who desperately wants to be productive if she’s not to sleep.