Two nights ago, I decided to make a dramatic life change in the next three weeks. I was so certain it would work out and I knew I would make the right decision and I just knew and everything inside of me knew and it was so exciting and the world was so exciting and et cetera and et cetera. Hypomania was terrifying, a voice inside my head pushing me over the edge, to places I wouldn't normally go, lurking in broad daylight with theories and beliefs and worldviews quite unlike those I hold in a less manic state. Thankfully, I recognized that I was hypomanic. I feel sad, reflective, and angry when I have to censor myself in these moments, as though part of me will always be Peter Pan, flying off to Neverland with no wings and inadvertently leading the Darling family straight to a gang of pirates.
The next day, I raced home from work, bright eyed and excited about the rest of the evening. With warm energy surging through my veins, I decided to go for a run (what a beautiful day! I will run so far and so fast!). It was the best run I've ever experienced. I felt strong and powerful and I did run so far and so fast. It never occurred to me to stop. When my legs started to ache or I got a sideache, I encouraged myself effortlessly and consistently. I believed I was a confident, beautiful, competent runner and I was. My hypomania helped me achieve what I may not have been able to accomplish without it.
When I completed my run, I was tired. The hypomanic buzz was waning briefly. But I didn't want it to go away. What kind of patient wishes for her symptoms to continue, especially when she knows that they are incredibly dangerous (see major life decisions, above)? This is the seductive, terrifying pull of hypomania, and it's part of the reason bipolars have a hard time staying on our meds.
Of course, I do keep myself medicated, but I understand the other side. Bipolar is about dualities such as this one: I understand that stability is worth more than fleeting bliss, and I understand that in moments of fleeting bliss, it is worth nothing.
The next day, I raced home from work, bright eyed and excited about the rest of the evening. With warm energy surging through my veins, I decided to go for a run (what a beautiful day! I will run so far and so fast!). It was the best run I've ever experienced. I felt strong and powerful and I did run so far and so fast. It never occurred to me to stop. When my legs started to ache or I got a sideache, I encouraged myself effortlessly and consistently. I believed I was a confident, beautiful, competent runner and I was. My hypomania helped me achieve what I may not have been able to accomplish without it.
When I completed my run, I was tired. The hypomanic buzz was waning briefly. But I didn't want it to go away. What kind of patient wishes for her symptoms to continue, especially when she knows that they are incredibly dangerous (see major life decisions, above)? This is the seductive, terrifying pull of hypomania, and it's part of the reason bipolars have a hard time staying on our meds.
Of course, I do keep myself medicated, but I understand the other side. Bipolar is about dualities such as this one: I understand that stability is worth more than fleeting bliss, and I understand that in moments of fleeting bliss, it is worth nothing.
Do you often recognize that you are hypomanic? Or was this a unique instance?
ReplyDelete