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[johneetries]

Cut and Run.

My lungs feel bound in twine. Everything in my peripheral line of sight is blurred. This doesn’t feel like a low, but it certainly doesn’t feel like a high. I want to run. I want to shave my head, burn all my possessions, cut my ties and disappear to somewhere like Wichita or Bangor. This is a reoccurring theme for me. Somedays the weight of my condition feels like literal weights being hung from my twine bound lungs. It’s easy and natural to feel like a burden to others when you have a mental illness. But it’s a situation with a point blank solution. I know in my heart of hearts that people care about me and are sensitive to my condition. The true struggle is how to navigate past feeling like a burden to myself.

Nostalgia is a liar. It convinces us things were better in the past. That I was better when I wasn’t bipolar. The glaring truth is I lived a fairly detached life. Like a ghost floating numbly over my physical self. With a belief that burying emotions and sour memories would solve something. That I could achieve a more meaningful existence by not dealing with things. That happiness was achieved by floating down the river as it was naturally being dictated. After slipping below the surface for a moment and reemerging, there was a desperate realization. I want some sense of control in my life. So I started beating against the current. Fighting against the river. Fighting to become who I wanted to be.

I want to run. The fight isn’t finished and it may never be. But then again, to exist is to progress. So maybe it’s not such a bad thing. Days like today can be a struggle. Contemplating missing the turn to my apartment and just driving away from Phoenix until I run out of gas. The idea of being a stranger in a new place is a saccharine sentiment. To pretend to be “normal” amongst people who don’t know me or my condition. To detach and act accordingly in a new setting. Then I remember that I can’t add my mental illness to the burning pile of my possessions. This is forever a part of who I am.

I’m not running. Some days feel like suffocating. Other days feel like fresh air into boundless lungs. This is part of my condition. It’s an infinite series of ever changing internal moments. I’ve said before that if you have a mental illness, it is part of you, but it does not define who you are. There are days where bipolar is all I can see in myself. Those are the days that cause isolation or the ideation of disappearing. To say that I always look for the positive and quickly overcome the hard times would be a lie. At the end of the day, I am merely a human with defects. Some days incapacitate me. I can get lost in the frenzy of my own mind. So I close my eyes, take a deep breath and remind myself that this moment will pass. Tomorrow will be a new day. I will get through today. I will wake up in the morning and do my best to make sense of another day.

This post has been hard to write. I always look for the silver lining in these moments, but today has been a challenge in that department. It would be nice if my brain would quiet down for at least one evening, but alas. It’s ok. I’m ok. Rome wasn’t built in a day. And my self-betterment won’t change overnight. That’s ok. I’m still here. I’m still breathing. Even when I’m struggling, I know that I’m fighting for something important: myself. So during these times when I want to disappear, I’m sticking around. I’m using my voice to talk about things that are difficult to express. I have passion and drive for the written word, but it can be difficult to accurately articulate what it truly means to live within my own brain. For better or worse, I’m stuck with me. And while I have people in my corner who love and support me, this struggle is my own. I have to put up the fight to be better. I’m trying. I have to remind myself that I’m trying. Today I wanted to disappear. Instead of hiding that part of me, I put it out into the world. Scary as that may be, it’s out there. I wanted to run, but I stayed. Tomorrow is the promise of new. I’ll get through this. I have to.

Until next time,

J.

[johneetries]

Adventures in the lows...

November 30th, 2018.

Today started like any other. I groaned at the sound of my alarm. I dragged myself out of bed. My bones creaked on my travels to the bathroom, where I did normal bathroom things like brushing my teeth, applying deodorant, and combing my bed head out. I threw my work rags on, poured a cup of coffee and proceeded to leave for work. It rained last night, so the smell outside was comforting. The skies were noticeably overcast, even during dawn. I felt at peace on my drive to work. Smoking a cigarette with the scent of rain breaking through my cracked window. Work was business as usual. Productive. No pitfalls. Friendly conversations. Lots of chopping, dicing, mincing, emulsifying, etc. Lunch rush was manageable and I moved a few lunch specials. I called it quits with a sense of accomplishment and feeling like I belonged in a kitchen still. I packed my knives, chef coat, and apron into my locker and walked to my car. I unlocked the door, got in the drivers seat and sat. And sat. And sat some more. Staring at my steering wheel as my mind raced from one existential crisis to the other. And then I started crying.

Nothing screams “stability” quite like crying alone in your car.

I still find myself in awe by how suddenly my mood can shift to complete despair for no particular reason. However, I figured out pretty quickly that I was entering a low. The bipolar low. I’m not sure how it works for other people. For me, it’s a lot of somber questions. Some examples include, “Am I unloveable?” or “Will I ever feel true accomplishment?” and my personal favorite, “Did a part of my soul die when I attempted suicide?” From a logical standpoint, I can easily recognize how silly and obtuse these questions are. But the lows don’t care. The lows make these questions glaring and dire. Then a few morose questions snowball into an unmanageable amount. Before I can even begin to dissect one question, the next one is already being asked. It’s as if an ADHD child on a sugar high is screaming all these questions from within me. But before I can try and console him, he’s just running around and breaking things.

The lows are honestly an interesting place to be. It’s true loneliness. Often self-inflicted, but still true. I always isolate when the lows hit. Holed up in my room with the door closed. Staring at the rapid movement of my ceiling fan while wondering if my existence serves any purpose. Which then leads to questioning what purpose is. Which then leads to blah blah blah... These questions are akin to throwing water on a Mogwai: they just rapidly multiply. Creating chaos. Eventually enough questions manifest that my brain snaps and steadfastly tells me to drink the questions away. An answer I’m quite fond of, but I know all too well what comes after getting drunk while low. And it’s nothing productive.

So what do I do? What can I do? These questions by their nature are designed to make me spiral. So do I just spiral out of control? It’s a complicated scenario. But through my dealings, I have some practices that have worked.

I allow myself time to feel low. Trying to push it right away doesn’t always work. Sometimes it makes it worse. So I allow myself a half hour to invite all the intrusive thoughts in. I’ll stare off or cry or have a panic attack or whatever else. But after that half hour, I try and move past the intrusive thoughts. Can I answer any of these questions? No? Then try to figure out the issue that created these questions in the first place. Can’t do that? Then move on. Let go of these questions that are doing nothing but damage. What good can I get out of asking myself, “Do I truly know what it means to love?” None. It’s all just abstract thought, and not the endearing kind. So do I just let it spread like a virus until it’s taken over my every thought? Honestly, sometimes that is the case. Sometimes I am too tired or not strong enough to deal with my own brain. And I will allow it to eat me from within. Falling asleep with frantic melancholy. But then I wake up feeling the same and I think to myself, “I have to be able to do better than this.” I can. I’m trying.

That really is the point at the end of the day: to try. The lows feel like they come out of nowhere. They hit hard and the hits don’t stop. They will pummel you into the ground, but you can fight to get back up. Like anything else in life, it’s the effort you put into it. When I was first diagnosed, I sat around waiting for medication and a therapist to fix me. I quickly realized that nothing would truly change until I put in the work. So I did. I am.

Some days are more challenging than others and none of them are ever a cake walk. Every day is spent lassoing my brain and tying it down in some form. It’s a constant act of convincing myself the thing that is causing me dread is not reality. Today was a prime example. Numerous thoughts frenzied around my brain and I had to do my best to calm them all. Sometimes it feels like traversing an endless tunnel, where the end never seems to get any closer. I push forward any way. Because after everything I went through to get where I am now, I have to try. I just have to.

From the good and the bad, all roads led me to today. A day with no particular significance other than the fact that I got to live it. I had some serious lows today, but I made it through them. Just as I have before. And just as I will again and again. Lows are hard to overcome. It’s easy to sit back and let it manifest. It truly is all consuming and crippling. It can take every ounce of energy I have to get myself out of it. Which is a completely daunting notion in and of itself. But I tell myself I have to try. Don’t stay down. Get up. Do something. Anything. The act isn’t as profound as I build it up to be in my head. Sometimes I just need to sit on my floor. Back against the wall. Listening to records. And write a blog about my mental health.

“Just cause we’re down, doesn’t mean we’ve gotta stay there.”

Until next time,

J.

[johneetries]

To begin...

Hello. I’m bipolar and manic depressive. I discovered these things as a result of a suicide attempt. There. Now the hard part is out of the way. Let’s get into it.

Being diagnosed with a mental illness was one of the most normal and foreign events I’ve ever experienced. Was it a surprise? No. Was it easy to digest? Double no. Being diagnosed with bipolar was a very somber “aha” moment. But before that moment could happen, a misdiagnosis inevitably happened first.

I spent this past summer working in middle-of-nowhere, South Dakota. Classic one liners about small Midwestern towns couldn’t even do justice to how desolate this place was. There were no traffic lights. No easily recognizable grocery chains. And worst of all, no Taco Bell. The events of my summer consisted mostly of two things: working and drinking. I was working over seventy hours a week. The first month I was there, I had two days off. Total. My post shift activities started simply with a beer at the bar once the restaurant was closed. Then a six pack would find it’s way home. Six became twelve. Twelve became eighteen. Eighteen became thirty. Liquor started being added to the mix. If it came between buying food or booze, I chose booze every time. Sleep became less and less until almost nonexistent. Toward the end of my time there, I was averaging between thirty minutes to two hours of sleep a morning. And I stress morning. I would generally stay up drinking until the sun had long risen. Every single night. As I reach the end of this paragraph, I can see how clear the warning signs may have seemed. But they weren’t. I was riding the wave of a bipolar high.

For the unversed, bipolar disorder exists in a spectrum of highs and lows. During the highs, the symptoms are rarely seen as symptoms. In my case, I perceived that I was feeling good. Great, even. I was putting in long hours at work and doing a damn fine job, at that. So what if I wanted to stay up drinking all night? As long as I was still functioning at work, there’s no problem. You can see how easily I was able to sway myself. Hard work equated to hard drinking. Simple math from a complicated brain. The longer the highs go unchecked, it can lead to mania. Which it did for me. Occasionally drinking all night turned into every night. And quickly. I isolated. I self-harmed. I stopped eating. The crossover from my highs to my lows were blurred. But when the lows hit, they hit hard.

Keep in mind, at this point in time, bipolar disorder was not on my mind at all. I boiled it down to simple and incorrect equations like excessive booze equals better mental state. Being a warm and welcome individual in the workplace subdued the self-hate that was growing. The whole “fake it till you make it” mentality used inappropriately. You keep your demons waiting outside your gate long enough, a few things will happen. One: more demons will show up. Two: they will grow irritable from being ignored. And three: they’re going to eventually smash that gate down and flood your castle.

My demons demolished my castle and its outlying kingdom. In one perfect storm, I completely lost my footing. For a multitude of reasons I could never describe or put into words, I decided to kill myself. And that is where I would like to leave that. While I am thankful that my attempt was unsuccessful, I will never feel the desire to talk about those moments in great detail. I know why I did what I did. I know the headspace I was in. I know the abuse I put myself through to get to that place. That is all that matters for anyone else to know. The explicit details and play-by-play of that night are mine. And mine alone. For selfish reasons, I keep that frame of thinking to myself. But for even more selfless reasons, I don’t ever want anyone to know what I was fully thinking in that moment. No one should have to ever understand how it feels to be ready and willing to take your own life. No one. There is no lower feeling than falling asleep for what you believe to be the last time.

Scratch that.

There is no worse feeling than waking up after falling asleep for what you believed to be the last time. The moment my eyes opened and I awoke cold and alone on the street, I knew that everything would change. And it did. Through a series of darkly humorous events, I eventually landed in a mental facility in Sioux Falls. Where I was held for twenty-four hours and within that time diagnosed with very base depression. A diagnosis I could have made for myself years ago. The doctors answer? Medication. Prozac. Two-hundred milligrams.

Now, I’m not sure if this a common mistake or one that was specific for me. But Prozac made me worse. Noticeably worse. It wasn’t until I started going to therapy and was diagnosed with bipolar and ordered to immediately stop taking Prozac that I started to feel better. The way it has been explained to me is antidepressants can often increase bipolar symptoms. Now for me, I was on a serious run with the lows. And Prozac was making those lows plummet further than I was ready for. It was explained to me that bipolar requires a mood stabilizer to be treated effectively. Again, not sure if this common treatment or was specific for me. But after enough time on a mood stabilizer, I could see how it was helping. But I’m jumping ahead.

Upon my release from the mental hospital and my return to Phoenix, I did eventually find therapists to see. Where I was asked a series of questions. Questions that I knew would lead to bipolar diagnosis. So when my psychologist suggested I might have bipolar, I was pretty hesitant. The questions were too obvious and handpicked for such a diagnosis. It wasn’t until he had me meet with his colleague, a psychiatrist, that things came into focus. She asked me much more specific questions. And based on my answers, she started asking questions that seemed tailor made for me. The more I answered, the more she asked. Never once did she stop to tell me I definitely had bipolar. She asked so many questions that I eventually hit my “aha” moment. I sat there in silence as it all soaked in. I’m bipolar. This is for the rest of my life. I have to do something about this. When I looked up, she was just looking back at me. Seemingly dissecting my brain through whatever my eyes were telling her. And from there we started discussing medication.

After six weeks on proper medication, I started to notice a difference. The symptoms of bipolar weren’t completely gone. But they became mild. I was balancing out. I was thinking more clearly. In the midst of all this clarity, it became important to me to not hide my mental illness. I wasn’t planning on being brash by walking around with a megaphone shouting “I’M BIPOLAR” to every passerby. But I also wasn’t going to keep quiet about it like I had some dirty secret. Because the truth of the matter is this: There are so many others like me who live with the knowledge of their illness every day. People who carry the burden of orange bottles in medicine cabinets. People who pay professionals to declutter their brains. Then there are the people who have yet to be diagnosed. The walking wounded limping their way through life. Ignoring the signs and unknowingly self-destructing.

I’ve walked both paths. I know exactly how they both feel. To be honest, neither one is great. But the fact is plain: I dodged suicide. I got a second lease on life, and I don’t want to squander it. So I’m trying to better myself and my surroundings. Maybe I’m getting things right, maybe I’m not. But I’m trying. I’m not staying on the course my life was on that got me to suicidal ideation in the first place. I’m branching out and doing things differently. And I sure as hell will not be quiet about mental health. Anyone who stumbles across this that struggles with their own fight with mental health: you are not alone. While your illness is a part of who you are, it does not define who you are. You define who you are. No battle is ever won without a fight. So fight for yourself. Fight for a better tomorrow. Fight to stay alive. Accept your reality. Own it and move forward. No one makes a better you than you. In the face of all that haunts you, live your life. Even if it feels impossible. I assure you, it is not. I am thirty-two and completely starting over. In the wake of my attempt, everything in my life has changed. For better or worse, everything has changed. I’m taking what’s left of the time I was allotted on this planet and trying to enjoy it. I hope you do the same, friends.

Until next time,

J.