Chapter 2: Trickster
Bipolar disorder is a trickster. And you are its fool.
As a child, it was cute. A rambunctious little girl brimming with unconstrained excitement. Talking talking talking. Wouldn’t shut up. Jumping on the couch. Drawing drawing drawing.
“You’re gonna crash soon,” they’d tease.
And then they’d laugh.
Though blissfully unaware of what this would mean for my future, my family already knew my patterns. Yes, I would crash. But not yet.
Jumping jumping jumping.
Talking talking talking.
Drawing drawing drawing.
And then.
A lethargic little girl. Mute on the couch. Weighted. As though a thousand pounds had been placed upon my shoulders. Unmoving. Vulnerable. In my head, a dark kaleidoscope. Tunnel vision. Forcing myself to breathe in case my body forgot how.
This phase always lasted longer than that which brought it on.
Sometimes I would lay on my back across the couch, head over the side and on the floor, facing out toward the room. Everything was upside down. It was disorienting. But I fought the panic. I fought the nausea. Because sooner or later, my vision would acclimate to this new point of view. Like pressing your arms against a doorframe just to feel gravity work backward when you finally step away. Eventually, my brain would recognize the ground as my new ceiling, throw rugs tacked above my head. Tables and chairs mounted as though floating down from the sky. And on my new floor: vents, water stains, and the precarious blades of a ceiling fan at my feet.
These were the first moments of a child’s mind trying to make sense of the chaos. Trying to adjust to a world flipped upside down.
I am no stranger to medication. Prozac, Lexapro, Celexa. Those were short lived, and many years ago. More recently: Adderall and Xanax in an attempt to manage the two dueling sides of my brain on an as-needed basis. I’ll discuss this in a future chapter.
For the bulk of my adult life, I have lived unmedicated by choice. I am an artist, and those bouts of intense and manic explosions of inspiration and productivity were instrumental to my work. I couldn’t afford to lose them. I’m speaking mentally here, not financially. The art I created had become the very definition of who I was as a person—art was no longer what I did—and I am forced to credit the manic phase of my bipolar disorder for the bulk of my work.
Insomnia was a constant companion during those times. Many nights—frequently for weeks on end—I wouldn’t fall asleep until 5am, and I’d awake at 8am to do it all over again. My hands moved at warp speed across the canvas. My brain, even faster. It’s the kind of inspiration that takes your breath away. The kind of inspiration that makes your eyes bulge. That makes you salivate. That makes you forget about breakfast.
And lunch.
And you are praised for it. Praised for the final product, of course. But also for the dedication. Such an enviable work ethic.
A manic phase can be nothing short of intoxicating. It’s enough to make you feel like you are doing something truly amazing. Because when other people praise what you’ve accomplished, they don’t realize that you will pay for it when the coin flips on you. It’s a cruel trade.
I tried to live through the down phases because the highs had become necessary. So necessary that I worried I’d be nothing without them. That if I medicated away those two halves of my brain, anything that was special about me would be completely obliterated.
So living with the depression was a requirement. Okay. I can do that. The penance for an endless well of creativity, right?
I began to think of my manic phases as my muse. It’s a lovely euphemism. Romantic. Like a sexy little angel sitting on my shoulder, guiding my fingers across a painting, across the keyboard.
But the muse is a trickster. A comedy/tragedy mask. And she always turned on me eventually.
When you are in the throes of a manic phase, it’s hard to imagine it will ever end. Surely, it will be like this forever.
When you are in the throes of a depressive episode, it’s hard to imagine it will ever end. Surely, it will be like this forever.
You begin to live two separate lives in your own mind. Multiple personalities. No exaggeration. As a bipolar person, the mind splits. As I’ve grown older, I’ve seen these two personalities drift further and further apart, becoming polar opposites—ice and flame, black and white—no matter how hard I’ve tried to blend them into a mutually beneficial gray.
A constant war in the brain.
And there came a day when I grew tired of fighting.
I grew so tired that no matter how many times I tried to right myself, the world had turned perpetually upside down. The ground had become my new ceiling. And at my feet: vents, water stains, and the precarious blades of a ceiling fan ready to cut me down, feet first.
I came to believe this would be my life forever. This dark kaleidoscope. This perpetual cycle, at times spinning so fast I couldn’t stand up. My muse's comedy/tragedy mask had been slowly sewn onto my face over the course of 40 years. I knew it might hurt, but I had to rip it off, stitch by stitch, or I would not survive another day.
But I didn’t know how. And I didn’t know what I’d find beneath.
I’ve never had faith in my life. Not in the traditional way one might think of when you hear the word “faith.” I frequently envied those who did. To have the knowledge that someone else always has your back. That someone else will always lead you out of the darkness. That must be lovely.
But that was not my path. And so it was me. Just lil’ ol’ me.
And as it turned out, a small, unassuming mushroom.
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