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vestigialtext · 4 years

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Euphorroria

[TW suicide, self-harm]

Imagine you turn around there’s suddenly a perfectly circular swirling hole open in the floor, emanating a hazy purple glow and a kind of pulsing, reverb-drenched celestial siren song, like the single sickest shoegaze riff you’ve ever heard.

You think, huh, wow, that’s a pretty weird trip-hazard, and erect some cordons to stop anyone falling in. But you become fixated on the hole, staring in unblinking for hours. It’s curious, it’s beautiful, it’s sonically enchanting, it’s perfumed with a kind of partially floral, partially cardomomic, partially metallic scent which just encroaches on the sickly-sweet – but you still want a taste.

The hole, as it happens, is a portal to insanity.

This is how I experience hypomania; standing steady-of-foot behind the barrier, gazing at wonder to the insanity, hearing its call but keeping a safe distance.

Mania would see me leap the barrier, approach too close, and invariably slip in screaming.

Psychosis, meanwhile, would see me fall in, try to either fight it or fuck it, turn it inside out and prolapse it back through into rational reality, the fabric of which world begin to collapse as internal and external landscapes collide and splinter into one and other and I approach self-oblivion.

A full psychotic break has only happened twice in my lifetime, and frankly I’m lucky to be here writing this drivel – my second episode, nearly a decade ago, almost killed me and left me with almost impossible-to-comprehend scars I’ll bear for the rest of my life, scars invisible to the observer but forever altering my perception of the world, scars I’ve made peace with but which continue to niggle every day. Without getting deep into the nightmarish details, I tried – and, thank fuck, failed – to blind myself, resulting in bilateral scarred corneas which mean that, while my vision remains entirely functional and luckily unimpaired to any significant degree, I experience constant, curious aberrations, especially in low-light where the world melts into a sea of halos.

Importantly, I’m still alive. I very nearly leapt into the Thames on the morning of 10/03/2010, and not through depressive, I-can’t-bear-to-live anguish, but due to chasing immensely powerful delusions and hallucinations to the same place that almost cost me my sight. There’s a lot I’ve written and lot I will write about my experiences of psychosis – particularly re the corrupted internal logic that catalysed much of my bizarre, life-ruining behaviour in 2003 and 2010 – but not here, not now.

Mania, the losing control of my inhibitions and tripping headfirst into hyperactive chaos, has occurred three times in my life, but only progressed through to psychosis twice. I had my first (and to date, only quickly-controlled) manic episode age 16, following a few months as an inpatient at an adolescent psychiatric in Newcastle (remember when the NHS used to offer those kind of services lol). Up until that point, I had been being treated for major depression, which was my diagnosis until the mania emerged. I don’t quite remember the specifics – I celebrated the 20th anniversary of my bipolar 1 diagnosis last month – but one day it seems the depressive fog suddenly cleared and my mind, robbed of feel-good shit for so long, lurched as far as it could in the opposite direction as some kind of bizarre compensatory push.

Perhaps the flip was inevitable, perhaps it was triggered by a chemical predisposition to mania plus guzzling down combinations of all the anti-depressant variants that could be feasibly prescribed for the preceding three months. Who can say. Whatever the case, suddenly I was bouncing around the hospital halls like Sonic the Hedgehog, talking borderline-gibberish garbage incessantly, getting back deep into abandoned A-level art projects and attempting to start roughly 1,000 extracurricular projects simultaneously. The doctors quickly took notice, brought me down with lithium and revised my diagnosis.

Hypomania, (literally “below mania”), is something I experience on average a few times a year, hitting in waves, usually with a clear trigger. It’s a glimpse at the maelstrom of insanity without actually dipping a toe. Delusional ideas can creep into my head, but I can analyse and dismiss them rationally with a firm “No.” I now have enough insight and experience of my own sensations and mood pattern recognition to usually ward off a manic episode, typically with self-seclusion and/or self-management, sometimes with medication. Zopiclone, a sedative, has proven to be something of a magic bullet at sniping down incoming mania, so I try to keep a stash handy – I popped one Saturday gone just to try and keep the train on the rails after barely sleeping for two weeks straight.

After accepting I was an alcoholic six years ago, I’ve gone entirely teetotal, and that itself has greatly improved my ability to monitor myself, to try and regulate my own mood – previously, I’d (technically binge)-drink more or less every single day, and drown out any troublesome hypomanic episode with even more booze, remaining entirely functional (if prone to starting each day with a big purging sick and then having a couple of practically clockwork spew breaks at work) until my liver and my nervous system started wildly red-flagging at the sheer relentless demands I was asking of them, the perpetual nature of my misguided self-medication, so I decided to stop dead drinking or risk further ruining my health.

Without in any way wishing to belittle or underestimate the impact of the disease (severe, bulk-of-a-year depression episodes have also nearly killed me) I feel like depression is something even people who don’t suffer from mental health problems can at least begin to comprehend, can take a stab at imagining the experience. Perhaps not the depths – the eroding, claustrophobic mental space, the glimmer of hope on the horizon disappearing into darkness, all sensory input turning to a grey mush, the head-in-a–tomb depersonalisation – but most people can relate to being “sad”, most people have experienced tragedy at some point in their lives. Hypomania, however, is a trickier prospect to explain. But I’ll try.

I can’t speak for others who experience the condition, but in my case, hypomania manifests itself across my whole physical, mental, emotional spectrum. Although other factors come into play, the biggest single trigger for me seems to be sleep deprivation. It’s no news that circadian rhythms and bipolar disorder are intrinsically interlinked, and I have very real first-hand experience. As a shiftworker (occasional nightshift worker) who lives on the opposite side of London to my office and has a four-month old daughter, my current sleep hygiene is pretty... ropey to say the least, so I’m trying to be extra vigilant. A few nights back-to-back of little sleep (I’m talking a hour or two, at the best of times my sleep is shit anyway and five hours is a good stint) I can often feel my mood changing gears.

Simply put, when I’m hypomanic, the world is a more engaging place; more detail fills the cracks, more edges pique my interest. All of my senses sharpen up – my vision becomes cleaner, brighter, more vivid, sound seemingly has additional frequency space, imperceptible before. My senses of smell and taste overwhelm me, aromas become intoxicating and normal food takes on gourmet qualities. My energy level skyrockets without any additional external input; I have much more impetus, enthusiasm about life, work, whatever. I can literally feel my mind starting to function differently – but not necessarily more efficiently – taking shortcuts, randomly accessing memories in remarkable detail without any prompt. I can think faster, but with less focus; I’m more distractible and will happily shoot off on wild tangents with complete disregard for my goal. Depending on circumstances at home or work, hypomania is a mixed bag – any lethargy is dispelled and my agency and job satisfaction is heightened, but I might, say, approach 20 tasks simultaneously when sequentially would be more rational.

Depending on social context, I expend varyingly extreme amounts of effort to varying degrees of success attempting to mask a hypomanic episode. You know how your body never really “heals”, and scurvy horrifyingly opens up old scars and shit? That’s kind of what my ever-simmering mental illness feels like when i’m consistently deprived of sleep for whatever reason, the cracks start appearing and it kinda seeps out a bit lol. I am well aware my hypomanic demeanour and delivery can alarm people, and I do try really, really, really hard to suppress things or if absolutely required, just remove myself from situations where a lasting, detrimental opinion could be formed. I am also fully aware I can become borderline intolerable to my long-suffering and remarkably patient wife, and I try to mitigate the condition’s impact on domesticity, again, only ever partially-successfully (sorry, Kate). On any given day, high, low, or creamy middle, I’d estimate around about 90% of my effort is put towards just trying to appear normal to others, trying to blend in. I imagine many other mentally ill people are broadly intolerant to open-plan hotdesking (not to mention the insatiable clock-in-and-hit-marks demands of capitalism).

I can physically feel my body “running hotter” when I’m hypomanic, like an overclocked CPU frazzling on a motherboard; headaches spark quickly if I don’t drink enough water. I’m not especially clued up on chemical synthesis of naturally-occurring hormones etc. but I kinda get the impression hypomania is little like organic, high-on-your-own-supply MDMA.

Hypomania seems to foster within me a deeper connection to and longing to revisit all of my favourite music, art, writing, films, games, people – chiefly, I go on obsessive listening binges of records I adore. As I mentioned earlier, my hearing changes when I’m hypomanic – songs sound better, richer, more punchy. One of my fondest ever memories of mental illness (sadly ruined by slipping into psychosis shortly afterwards) was walking around out at night listening to My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless on shitty earbuds via a Spotify stream and still hearing subtle elements blossoming from the mix I’d never clocked before; layers of what sounded like processed flutes fluttering under the wall of guitars, gentle tonal ebs and flows, what seemed to be entire hidden tracks I was only just tuning in to, a secret sound world unveiled.

This might well just be wild conjecture, but I like to think maybe some bands – the bands who “get it” – deliberately bury this audio information deep within the mix, only to be decoded by specific mental setups, be they drug-indicted or naturally, hormonally occurring, breadcrumb trails left in the studio production as a little nod by whoever put the music together that they understand the confusion, the dislocation and alienation of mental illness, something extra beyond the lyrics. It might well be bullshit but it brings me great comfort. I’ve put together a playlist of some favourite tunes I suspect were written about hypomanic states, knowingly or otherwise, or instead conjure up that specific vibe.

To be honest, the hardest thing I find about dealing with episodes of hypomania is that they can feel so good it’s very hard to not attempt to stoke the sensation, prolong it, succumb deeper to it. That way oblivion lies; please stand behind the yellow line at all times.

#hypomania #bipolar #mentalillness

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mynameisdreartblog · 5 years

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Architectural Styles 3

Libra: Umayyad. I've made a mistake when ordering… something and I put the wrong number at the end of the address. That wouldn't be so much of a problem if I lived like a normal person within normal circumstances, but that's not me; I live in Helltown, Greater Syria [Hebrew: עיר גיהינום] (which is just the rural zone), and now my package has gone to a nearby bandit fortress. If we go off a stereotyped assumption, they probably don't take too kindly to visitors. [,,,] Of course, we shouldn't make assumptions about their way of life, but their outward appearance is telling me that I'm not welcome: what with the pillars adorned with the still-bleeding heads of their fallen enemies, the rabid guard dogs gnawing at the rotting flesh of their hind legs, the sheer number of artillery aligning the scouting posts, and the spooky flag with skulls on it. It's definitely scary, but it's still where they sent my work, which consists of King Tut's carcass that they send to us to decontaminate before they send it to European countries to exhibitionism… I wasn't supposed to tell you any of that, but you're welcome. […] Ugh, I'm gonna have to do this, otherwise the Egyptian government will never trust us with anything ever again. So, I need you to come along with me, Enoch, and we'll confront it together… Alright, <Yellen knocks on the giant steel door of the fortress.> ᴴᵉʸ, ᶜᵃⁿ ʷᵉ ᶜᵒᵐᵉ ᶦⁿˀ [,,,] Whelp, that didn't work. Let's just abandon our current condition, travel east, and start a new life as telemarketers… Oh. «Hello, shit-lickers! Why have you come to my fortress, disrupt my routine, and demand for my space?» Uh… yeah, I'm here to tap your mom! «What? You are not allowed to tap my mother!» Well, I'm gonna do it anyways, and it's gonna be a threesome with Enoch right here! «W-wow, that makes me so angry; it makes me wanna… wanna throw something at you!» Yeah, throw your most expensive and heaviest object at me, why don't you? «Yeah, maybe I'll throw this sarcophagus at you!» Please do!

Cancer: Mar del Plata. I remember when they told me that they loved me, and I could recall everything in that moment: the texture of the bus seat, the feel of the air against my skin, exactly how itchy my hair was, & the view outside of the window. I could recall everything I saw gazing outside: everything so nice, cozy, & bucolic. Everything was so nice, and the common life was almost artistic to look at. Time almost ceased to expand (as to the false notion that it moves forward), and it felt like this was made for me <this is the point where Great God Plan by Sd Laika plays: a great art pop song that really captures this moment.> […] That moment seemed to've struck a deep nerve somewhere in my brain, and the only way I can describe it is that it's akin to a nostalgia for a place I've never lived in, and it wasn't even off the gulf of San Matias… the grassland outside of the bus strangely reminded me of the clear waters, the skeleton of the bus reminded me of my own home with a couple of loose nails and all, and the window reminded me of the limited view I had with my newborn eyes. […] It felt I was drowning, but it was a pleasurable version of it: I didn't mind the surrounding fluids overtaking my space, as I believed it benefited me at the time. I could be mistaken, but maybe it was some sort of reconciliation for when the Atlantic waters caved in and flooded the depressions that shaped the land bordering the gulf. As I'm saying this, I can vaguely remember it happening, but I don't know if that was me: I was born in extremely rural Cordoba (that's what my mom always told me at least), but yet this is so familiar to me as if I lived in Viedma. […] Still, I was so moved by it that… that, I was woken up by what sounded like a car alarm, and the smell of fumes. Time was still stopped and you could sense a look of extreme unease in my eyes. Tall, skinny, & dark as ash with claw-like fingers, and in its path were phallic-shaped footprints that warned of arcane lust: it arose out from behind her and edged closer towards the bus… fun memories.

Virgo: Brutalism. «Nicknames: Honey Badger, The Crow, The Sheriff. That zoology class was the treasure trove of nicknames. Some of the nicknames that came outta there were Black Widow, a girl who sat in front of us who was still into the emo scene. There was something going on with her where she was chill for a while, but she'd flip out at any minor inconvenience. We had another one called Foghorn Leghorn, and she was someone who was just insanely loud. She could be upstairs and we'd be downstairs with the door open and we'd just know instantly that she was talking. […] Now, we have Shorty Shorts: a dude who was incredibly short, and had that body type that those dudes in the 40s had where you couldn't tell whether they were fat or strong. Every time he went to the gym, he'd just have shorts right up to his waste, so that's why we called him that. […] Lastly, we have Dr. Ben, who was that person who seemed to've swapped identity every month or so. We got along well with him, but he got his nickname 'cause he was in organic chemistry with, my buddy, Alyosha. And this was the kind of stuff he'd do specifically: picture us in the cafeteria and I'm getting cereal. Alyosha would bump into me and act like he didn't know me and he'd become very aggressive for an act. Alyosha, for the first four years he taught science, he hated all of that paperwork. So a student came up to him with an exertion forum, and he took it and literally burned it with a lighter due to how much he hated signing those papers.» […] «"You know how many doctorates that guy has? And do you know how many you have? You have zero, and that dude had several, so I think I'm gonna trust that dude over you." And that's how the nickname Dr. Ben was born.» Wow, that was such a cool story, prof. Domovoi. It was so cool, in fact, that it made me wanna get up, leave the classroom unnoticed, contemplate my possession of reading comprehension, and return back also unnoticed. It's been two hours, please let me leave.

Sagittarius: Palladian. When I was eleven, I went to a summer camp for aspiring stage performers, and they said to keep away from red wine and stick to strong spirits. I guess it's just assumed that anyone who goes on stage is an alcoholic, but I had some fun times there. You know, I was forced to go through it because I told my parents, once, that I wanted to pursue acting, and they interpreted that as the leeway to send me to a camp where I learned only the first couple of lines to eleven of Mandela's… wow, he did a lot of speeches. […] Truth be told, I think they were excited in any semblance to see me finally express interest in something that isn't just body improvement or the listening to the same indie album over and over. When I was young, I thought I was gonna be a runner: I did half a decade of running and it all got me were wicked spider veins before my middle-aged years and incredibly strong nostrils. […] But for the miserable time I was at summer camp, I portrayed myself as an American mobster named something typical like Tony: I had a button-up with Hawaiian patterns and everything. I made sure to get everything I needed to be Tony Chemical (badass name, huh?): tinted shades, a comb that dispenses oil grease every time I use it, breath mints to cover the smell of alcohol, and arcade machines. Yeah, didn't all of those gangsters back in the day have arcade machines? That was the cool, illegal thing they all engaged in, right? They were like, sold on the black market for tons of bucks. […] But I'll tell you: the one thing I didn't have that left Tony's character incomplete was the tattoos — they were the key to sealing the pact and unleashing Tony Chemical onto this world as the criminal star she was born to be. […] I can see how it was a great distraction from the years of hard labor that I would inevitably be pushed into, but for the while, it was fun drinking all the red wine they explicitly told me not to drink, and then making the alcoholism part of Tony Chemical's character. She's called Chemical because of all the alcoholic chemicals in her body!

#Zodipunc #Zodiaccupuncture #Libra #Cancer #Virgo #Sagittarius

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