I was hypomanic. For about two to three weeks. And it rocked and it sucked and it’s over.
It sucked because I was paranoid that I would crash into a hospitalizing depression. But it didn’t effect my sleep, so no need to stir up the psychiatrist. (She says sarcastically.) I just walked. An average of 4.5 miles a day. Fast. That’s all.
. . . well . . . things became urgent. Suddenly it was imperative that I lose the weight I put on in the hospital and that I lose it quickly. And I wanted my pills back. Now. Oh. Yeah. And I almost cut a check for $1,000 to the church. Just ‘cause. It is time. (Now.)
But the energy! I was living life like a normal person! . . . and a little bit extra, fine. But it was SO nice. To not have to drag myself away from bed. To walk without having an argument over it first. To rate my mood at a 7 or 8 on a scale of 1 - 10. To mend the jeans that have been sitting torn and unused for months.
I DID things. Healthy things. Functioning people things. It rocked.
Then the switch flipped. One day I was suddenly severely disinterested in the concept of walking. I was, I don’t know, I found it to be a horrible idea. And so big. Too big. I drug my feet the whole way. I went, as I have written before, from energy and drive and motivation to lethargy and anadonia.
I stopped walking. And I felt guilty. Instead of being grateful that I didn’t crash into a deep depression, I was (am?) bitter that the energy is gone.
That was just over two weeks ago. I haven’t leveled off into some average place. Into some semi-normal human functioning zone. I hated my first three shifts back at work. My to do list always seems too big. Even if it is just one item: GET GAS. Too big.
It started with sadness. Low, bummed, and sad. And then there was the election. Add disappointment. Shifts at work go poorly. Add disillusionment. And then I house and dog sat, and I was miserable. And I love dogs. Add confusion. And then I start shaking again. Add bewilderment.
This last Wednesday I wrote that “Monday, I was ‘maybe depressed,’ yesterday I was a wreck, today I’m negative, confused, anxious, and agitated.” Add discontent and unhappy when listing emotions at IOP. I told my counselor, well, told is a strong word. The words “I am depressed” came out of my mouth, somehow. Then I proceeded to tell her how un-okay that is. I’m not supposed to be depressed. I’m supposed to be well.
Fuck you, hypomania. I was doing so well. Fine. Fine. I was doing okay. I was checking in at a 5 everyday. Then you came. And gave me false hope that I could be an energized, high-functioning human being. I can’t, though. Not for more than three weeks.