April 2009 | Chapitre Quatre

Blog, the Fourth
In which Amelia almost departs from the precipice.

Today’s blog shall consist of a blog within a blog. Or, shall we say, prickly difficulties, encased in warm gooey comfort. I am about to admit that which I never do: I am not perfect. Now, this may come as a shock to one or two of you out there. I know it was for me. But hold fast friends! I know that since I have had the ability to come to terms with this issue numerous times, you can too. However, here’s…the Thing. The Thing, dear readers, is that I’ve had to cope with the very opposite thought as well. I must now also admit (against better judgment) that I’ve had a troubling couple of weeks here, trapped inside my head. Nothing I wish for you to worry your pretty heads over. No, no, no. Just a simple detour of the mind. For those to whom I have not yet divulged my personal struggle, it is a mental disorder called Bipolar II. “Disorder,” obviously, being a key word here.

Whenever I stumble upon my life’s path, I turn to writing to point my self in the proper direction. In the twenty-first century, this very personal coping mechanism is edited drastically and posted in the form of a blog for all the world to read. This is perfectly fine, as long as I am in control. Who else could possibly be in control of my own blog, to which only I have the secret passcode decoder key, you ask? Well, read on, dear friends.

Although depression has always been more prevalent for me, today’s post will focus on my more interesting and recent troubles with hypomania, a form of mania in which there is no mental break from reality. Hypomania comes in two forms, where I am concerned. The darker side is a mixed episode, or what I call “rough” hypomania. In this state my logic is clouded, my emotions are irritated, and my energy is stretched wafer thin. I have snapped at many I love, or cried uncontrollably at them, unable to understand why they seem to hate me. I’ve lost friendships and lovers, colleagues and mentors. But the worst feeling is that I know, when I am in this state, the torrent of words, spit, tears, and snot flowing furiously from my uncontrollable face can not and will not be stopped. And thus, those closest to me are at least driven away, and at most crushed.

With the more entertaining side, what I call my “smooth” hypomania, creativity, energy, and the good mood all run rampant. As an example, if any high school chums are reading this, you may remember that I spent a good deal of high school being considered fearless, cool, and hilarious. Fortunately for many of you, I was a ton of fun with boundless energy. Unfortunately for me, I have very little memory of the specifics of high school because I was usually flying at top speed. And when I was not, I was trying my best to look like I was because I was, instead, swirling down the toilet of depression.

Now that you have some background information, allow me to let you in on one of my firsthand accounts during a bout with some “smooth” hypomania. Other than a few omitted uninteresting thoughts and the concealment of my rival’s name, the passage is exactly as I wrote it.

Blog, blog, blog! That’s what keeps twirling through my mind on this manic Friday and Saturday. Sorry Manic Monday, you’re sooo twenty years ago. But about what can I blog? I could blog about the fact that work is going really well and I’m enjoying myself immensely. I could blog about the fact that the puppy did her business on the couch. Or I could blog about the fact that it’s spring and there’s fresh snow on the ground. But rather than speak of the mundane, I feel that the best way to express myself today is to allow my mania to run free across the transoms of my brain, then tingle their way around my heart, and then dance out the ends of my fingertips as I blurt out all the randomness that clouds my focus on this sunny weekend. Mania. I keep using that word. To some, it’s a dirty word. A word that represents panic and disorder. A word tinged with the chaos of an uncontrollable state. To me, however, it represents creativity and freedom and recklessness. Well, the recklessness is not necessarily a good thing to those looking in on my world, but to me the recklessness can be quite a jolly load of fun. As long as I don’t regret it tomorrow. Or the day after. Or next year. Invariably, I will. And I accept that challenge. Partly because…well…what other choice do I have? But also partly because I don’t really feel like I have a lot of problems that result from the recklessness because I have always been very lucky.

Luck is not something that one might first associate with recklessness. But I certainly do. Think of all the people who drive in a reckless manner only to wrap themselves around a tree, or worse, wrap someone else around a tree. I’ve never wrapped myself around a tree. Therefore, I am lucky.

Today is so glorious. A day to jump and sing and crow to the sun how beautiful she is! A day to start digging in the earth with my bare hands…ah, but the snow! I do forget. This is a day to do laundry, to do the dishes, to organize cabinets, to write papers, to organize files, to put folded clothes away, to read books, watch movies, to go go go and do do do and talk talk talk. Unfortunately for my mother, she is the only one around to listen to my blather. Last night at dinner I inundated her with talking. And more talking. My throat was sore by the end of dinner. And yet I’d eaten until my limbs were full all the while that I was talking. A whirlwind of words and calories mingling in a frenzy of what must have been a disgusting spectacle. I do my best to try and hide these higher aspects of my persona, but I know I have only so much skill in keeping things in check.

I have two extremes with a little fortress of pills trying to keep me in the center. And I suspect the pills are not working entirely properly right now for I feel myself beginning to turn on the no smoking light, asking myself to buckle my seatbelt, and prepare for take off. It’s a good thing I live in Oshkosh. Oshkosh, home of the largest airshow in the world. Home of airplanes and pilots and…isn’t it an appropriate thing that my name is Amelia. Like Earhart. A woman who flew so high that she lost herself.

My lows, my trenches, seem so far away. And M. wants to come out to play. I am M.’s flight suit and when M. straps in, I go along for the ride. M. takes me all over the place at breakneck speed, and I am eager to see all M. wishes me to experience.

I have no time for food or sleep or practicality when M. takes over. M. is me, unleashed. I do wish my friends could see M. in action. It’s so much fun. But when I have attempted to allude to said fun I’ve had with my dear M., my other friends get a worried brow. And I feel that they probably don’t understand. As a matter of fact, they seem so reserved in their reactions that it resembles concern. Or worry. And the last thing I can stomach is making others worry over someone like me.

So fret not, friends. M. has come to play. And the dog seems to enjoy my 2am walking needs. I haven’t driven anywhere yet, but I certainly do feel a roadtrip coming on. One in which I drive as fast as I can as far as I can in half the time I have, and then turn around. Responsible irresponsibility. I am nothing if not ultimately responsible. The problem with a blog is that when one feels the need to divulge information such as random and spontaneous roadtrips, then it shatters the whole illusion of being a stoic and dependable person.

I shake my head trying to sort out the fog, but it just makes my neck hurt and lashes my bangs out into my eyes. This makes my nose itch, and rubbing my face makes me have to squirm. My skin crawls and I’m not even on drugs. Well, not illegal ones, anyway…

Whew! Now that that’s over, let me uncover a bit of the darker side. My “rough“ hypomania. This section was written a few days after the first one. It has been heavily edited for a number of reasons, and what we are left with is simply a smattering of the idea. Hope it suffices to paint the picture. And yes, I am aware I have a mixed metaphor in the first sentence. Keep in mind I was out of mine.

Should I keep working, brick by brick, maintaining my carefully sewn exterior? I'm made up of a crazy quilt. Pieced together from all the shreds of fabric left intact from childhood. Do I wax poetic, or did mother wield a seam ripper? Is it possible to have damaged my fabric so much that it's useless to repair? There's always more fabric. And all the king's horses and all the king's men always have at least the ability to sew Amelia together over M. again. M. shows up at the strangest intervals. When the fabric rips, M. is my stuffing. And right now I am leaking M. all over myself. Is there a cure? Nah. The stuffing will always be there. The question will always be, has always been, how strong is my outer fabric?

My body is tired. My mind is not. It spins like a wet top, whipping thoughts out in every direction. I can't sleep. Repetition is too loud.

So there you have it…er…a bit of it. I am still unsure as to why I chose this topic for my blog post. Am I looking for attention or sympathy? Definitely not. So if the desire to choose this option strikes you, please do not voice this thought to me as it will only cause me to feel horrid that I caused you any semblance of worry. I think what I’m really after is understanding. I strive to understand myself and have others understand me. I function as a human being quite well, and expect to go on doing so for quite some time. But I also harbor a hope that the me that dwells within and the me that dwells without might be able to merge a bit more. Anyway, here’s to hoping. Thanks for reading.