Sometimes there's no stopping the hurricane

I have bipolar II. But the thing about bipolar disorder in general is that the recommendations for management via medication are very strong, because of the nature of the illness. It's easy to be considered dangerous to yourself or to others and at the end of the day, the medication is the best tool we have in our toolkit. I've never wanted to be on psychotropic medication though. The side effects scare me, the fact that it really should be viewed as a permanent lifestyle change scares me, the thought of flattening my affect scares me, it all scares me and I don't think in a particularly unreasonable way. I've always said no to discussions about trying medication, so in the long run verifying the diagnosis was never a priority whenever I did seek professional help. The thing is though, managing bipolar without medication is a pretty Herculean task. It's something I don't think I would have been able to do alone and I'm really grateful that I don't deal with it alone. Henry actually takes the vast majority of the responsibility on that one. He's the person who keeps me safe from myself.

Here's the thing. My entire life is a bit of an unsafe situation for me. It's filled with the type of stress that's great at setting off depressive swings. It's also filled with the type of constant activity that's great at masking manic swings. I've been doing this for over a decade now. I know enough about me and about what's going on to have some sense of where my mental status is at. But I'm not as objective about it as Henry, and I really count on him to know better. Today has been an interesting exercise in rediscovering that sometimes we can do everything in our power to try to stop the worst of the days, but they will still come. It's a strange experience. It makes you feel unsafe in your own home, in your own skin.

Some of the worst days for me come in the busy weeks when I fall short of one goal or another or maybe even many. Perhaps this down swing started that way, but I was making an effort to not fall into that trap. I was trying to be accepting, I was trying to be loving, I hope that came across in the things I've been writing this week. But the logic doesn't always get it's way. Somehow you can still find yourself lying in bed too tired to sleep or look at the ceiling or breathe. There was a point in the day where I was lying in bed and I could feel my heart beating slowly, so slowly, and I told Henry it felt like my heart was just waiting to give up and I asked him if you could die from being sad.

The slow days are the worst days. When my brain is too tired to form words even in my thoughts or do anything more than shift my body a little bit when it gets achy from being in the same position for too long. I've been actively suicidal before and even that is better way to feel. On suicidal days I feel backed into a corner with no realistic choice but to die. On slow days I wouldn't even have the strength to conjure up that thought. I just wonder if my heart will stop from how much weight I feel on my chest and I think maybe if my house caught fire I would just stay in bed and it would be a blessing. It's a different brand of suffering. It doesn't come often but when it does it always catches me off guard.

I'm coming back out of it I think, I wouldn't be writing now if I weren't, I wouldn't have enough words. I don't want to even hope that it's passed because it'll be crushing if it comes back. I've known enough of these days to know that you're never really safe. It's hard to ever really be safe. And just now I was thinking about being young, about feeling these things silently for the weeks and months that they swept me and walking through life anyways because so long as you go on living, you have to go on living. I wish I could go back and hold that child because no child should ever have to feel this way.

This is my long winded explanation for why I didn't go to the pool today. It's my long winded explanation for why things get put on hold in my life sometimes. Sometimes it feels like an excuse but Henry tells me I can't look at it that way because mental illness isn't something I can just push my way through with grit or determination or whatever. It doesn't change how much it feels like an excuse. I have work to do, but we're at 13/16 (81.2%). Accountability really doesn't care for circumstance now does it?

Much love,
Jess

PS - This song sums up what it feels like pretty well. Don't get hung up on the words, just listen.