My Poor Brain: Spring Edition

March 2018 marks three of being drug free. Back in 2015, I stopped taking the anti-psychotic medication that had been prescribed in the wake of an overdose twelve years previously. It was a big step and one that was far out of my comfort zone.

The past three years have disappeared in a blur of putting my life back together and learning how to live. Emotions that I never knew existed have surfaced and I've faced complications that I never thought that I'd ever see. But they're all battles that are meant to be fought and won. Giving up isn't an option and, even on the darkest of days, I've tried to keep a positive attitude.

It isn't always easy, though, and there are two periods of the year when it becomes even harder to maintain that balance that I've become so used to. As autumn slides in to winter and winter slides in to spring, I've discovered that my brain becomes a little more unbalanced. One is from the days becoming shorter and the weather becoming colder and the other is as we emerge from a long, cold winter.

As winter becomes spring I find that I'm achy and tired. My body feels as though it's run out of fuel and, no matter how much goodness I give it, the exhaustion doesn't lift. There's aches and pains where I've never known aches and pains and articulating myself suddenly becomes a mountain that I can't climb. Anxiety burns through me and sleep is a memory. It's as though everything has been asleep over winter and is slowly waking up.

Which may be what's happening. This is a situation that I've found myself in a few times over the previous three years. As the seasons slide from one to the next so the human body follows. It lives by nature's clock, sleeping and awakening and sleeping again. The dark days of winter make us want to sleep while the beginnings of spring makes us feel lethargic and like we're emerging from a long hibernation.

Another theory that I've heard is that, by the end of winter, the body is running low on essential vitamins and minerals. Like squirrels, we'll have spent the months before winter stocking up on the things that will see us through the dark winter days. And, while we may take supplements to get us through the cold months, they're not always enough so, come March and April, we feel run down, tired, and grumpy. Over the winter, I take a range of vitamins including C, D, and iron, as well as using a daylight lamp in the mornings and evenings. Hopefully, this year, I may be able to also get some tests done just to see exactly what needs topping up throughout the year.

Or it may just be the way that my fabulously defective brain is wired!

So it's that time of the year again. I'm a little bit grumpy, fairly achy, and generally tired. Everything is taking longer than normal. But it's getting there, and that's all that matters. Mountains can be climbed. It just takes one step at a time.

The Time That I Tried to Buy a Nuclear Bunker

Let's talk about the mania part of bipolar. It's interesting and, at times, can be useful. I've written entire books while in the throes of a manic period. Once harnessed, it can be a force for good, and a ride that you don't particularly want to get off of.

Then there's the really crazy times. I know people who've blown through money with nothing to show at the end of it. Or who have gotten themselves into life threatening situations. Thankfully I'm still here to tell the tale but there was the time that I tried to buy a nuclear bunker. You didn't misread that.

I tried to buy a nuclear bunker.

They're not hard to get hold of if you have buckets of cash and live in certain parts of the world. The issue is that I don't have buckets of cash, nor do I have the right to buy property in places like the US (and the other issue is that I have no right to remain there, which kind of defeats the object of such a lavish purchase).

But you can't tell that to a manic brain. As far as it's concerned, it can have whatever it wants and the consequences will be dealt with later. Why did it want a nuclear bunker? Why not? It was one of the many supposedly rational things that my brain told me that I needed.

Please laugh. Because I do. I'd end up in hospital if I didn't laugh at some of the completely ridiculous things that surround the bipolar.

The mania can be amazing. But it also comes with its downsides. Like the aches and pains as it wears off. There's no concrete reasoning for them and theories range from the body tensing up during the period to lack of sleep caused by an ever active brain to the body dumping the excess chemicals that it's created during that period. All I know is that it hurts. And you don't want to do a damn thing during it.

Mania can feel like this!

Anxiety is another side effect. Crippling, uncontrollable and unfounded anxiety. Because of my reluctance to take any medication (I'll be off them 3 years this year) I have to rely on talking myself out of it, reasoning, or using natural over the counter products (Bach's Rescue Remedy is a saviour during these times). But the anxiety is something that can last for months with no rhyme or reason to it, causing untold anguish and additional physical pain.

But I'm blessed. Blessed to have family and friends who will go out of their way to make sure that everything's okay and to talk me into situations that are entirely safe but, to my brain, are life or death events. I know that not everyone has such a support system so we need to look out for one another. We need to take care of each other and make sure that everyone has a place to feel safe and supported. Please don't go through it alone.

Battling the Monster

Every day, I go to war with my mind, an organ that is in a constant battle to kill me. Every day, I get up and grin at the monster that looms before me. Black and stinking, with bloody fangs and pebble eyes, it grins at me, hoping that today will be its day to win.

The monster has never won. Every morning, I stand firm and grin at it, sending it scampering back to the place from which it has come.

You can't see the monster. But I can. This is the dark side of my brain. The place that tells me I can't do something. One of the haunting, horrible parts of having Bipolar. And whenever something good starts to happen, the monster makes an appearance, snarling and laughing, ready to snatch away whatever I've been building.

As you know, I've been working on several projects recently. Some of them are nearing completion faster than others. And this is when the monster decides to visit.

If you were reading last year, you may remember the Great Pumpkin Delivery of November 2015. It was an event that made me look myself in the eye and finally push beyond the fears that have been building for many years. That event was several hours of pure Hell. Of crying, of not eating, of being on my hands and knees as I fought with every ounce of my being to put the monster to sleep once and for all.

And it's here again. As pieces of the next project fall into place, the slumbering monster rises and stands before me.

You don't deserve this.

You can't do this.

You can't have this. It's not for you.

Crawling behind the blackened beast is the pain. Pain so harsh and so violent that, in the past, it's caused vomiting. It's like your soul is being dragged from your body. Desperately you try and cling to that precious fibre of your being but eventually the searing pain becomes too much to bear. You give up. You sit and cry before closing your eyes and hoping never to open them again.

And all the while, in the back of your head, that rasping voice hisses, Do it. It won't hurt for long and, when it's over, the pain will be gone forever.

Life becomes a battle of wits as I try and piece together this next book while artfully dodging around a creature that would like to see me dead. But, as happens every time, I can feel myself going in to my shut down mode. The mode where I don't talk, don't eat, and don't do anything other than go to work. I push people away and refuse to acknowledge anyone in my sphere. Because, as the monster has told me, I don't deserve any of this, not even people who care about me.

This is probably the hardest post I've ever written. It's also one of the most freeing. Rarely am I honest when it comes to how I truly feel. I much prefer to plaster on a smile and pretend that everything is okay. Because I'm healthy, right, and what more is there to life than that? But... There's always a but...

I don't want to lie to anyone who reads this. Life is hard today. Today hurts and aches with a pain that tears straight through the body. It feels as though I'm slowly being cut open. My eyes are dry and my face aches from the crying. Where there was once light at the end of the tunnel, there is now none. Darkness has settled and, in the distance, I can hear the monster cackling. Its claws are whispering over my skin and its putrid breath is trickling my cheek. I've given this battle my all and now I'm on my knees. The time is nearly upon us.

Yet tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow the sun will rise, and it will set. Life will happen all over again and it's another chance to battle the black monster. To stand up it, and smile, and say, “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. You don't control me any more.”.

But I'm scared that one day I won't be strong enough to battle the monster that lives in my head.

I'm sorry.

~~~

Rae is an award winning author with several books to her name. When she's not battling the beast inside her head, she enjoys seeing how far life will take her. She's currently running a Kickstarter to help fund her first non-fiction book:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/raegee/living-las-vegas

Learning to Live

It's been nearly a year since I came off the medication. The drugs I was given were used to control the after effects of my 2004 drug overdose. In the wake of that, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. 

I'm not going to lie; it's not been an easy twelve months. There's been a lot of ups and downs and a lot of learning. Emotions have been bubbling to the surface and sometimes I haven't been sure of what they were. Anger? Exhaustion? Happiness? It's all been a little confusing but I finally feel like I'm getting a handle on it. As every day dawns, I ask “What am I going to learn today?”.

Grief has been a recent emotion I've been dealing with. Grief for what's been and gone. Grief for the years I feel like I lost to recovery. Grief for the things that have happened and the people that have come and gone from my life. Grief as I debate whether to lay long held dreams to rest and live the hand that I've been dealt.

But I refuse to give up. I believe that I have more to give this world than what you read in my books or on here. Keeping going is hard. It's like battering your head against a brick wall. It's like trying to break down walls with a fork. It's like long, endless nights of crying as you try not to slip back into the comforting depths of depression. It's being strong when your body and brain just want to give up.

I could choose between darkness or light, between the crippling depression or the brightness of love. Being evil and vindictive felt good. But that flicker of power was just that; a brief burst in an otherwise bleak world. To choose happiness, and to be happy, felt so much better. And it wasn't for me. It wasn't a choice of ego. Rather it was the happiness at seeing people smile and laugh. It was the beauty of a sunrise, the joy of a song, or the pleasure of a favourite snack. It was about enjoying the little things in life while working on the bigger things. It was, and still is, about letting go of the negative people and situations that were dragging me down. It's been about letting go of the hurt from the past; attacks, drug and alcohol abuse, and people who've seen someone who they can abuse. It was about being kind rather than cruel. Most of all, it was about being comfortable with myself and who I am rather than seeking out those dark corners of drama and dispute.

It was about not letting the darkness win again.

On Being A Bipolar Writer

Being an unmedicated, bipolar writer is interesting. I make the distinction between medicated and unmedicated because, for me, there has been a huge difference. When I was medicated, I stuck to a schedule. I could churn out 1000+ words without drawing breath. I instinctively knew where a story was going and I rarely stopped to think how I was wording sentences.

Being unmedicated, for me, has been a whole other kettle of fish. It's only been recently, within the past month, that I've actually managed to get back on any kind of track. I've been in a kind of limbo since the drugs cleared my system back in March, desperately trying to get my creative brain back on track.

And it's not been easy. Some days I've managed to write something. Others I've stared idly at the screen, wondering what to put down. None of it was helped by the muscle seizures caused by the medication withdrawal, ones which made it difficult (up until last week, anyway) for me to handwrite more than a few words. I enjoy sitting down with a notebook, pen, and tea and just scribbling ideas down on to paper, something that's a little more difficult when it comes to using a computer. Typing, or dictating, notes to my phone just doesn't have the same appeal as choosing a new notebook and pen.

In the past two weeks, I've cleared something like 10,000 words over several different projects. It's an achievement and something I'm extremely proud of. It's proof, to myself, that I can do this even if I'm struggling in other areas of my life. It's a spark of hope that life without medication can be somewhere within the realms of “normal”.

Writing without the meds is... interesting. I find myself analysing what I'm writing, far more than I did when I was medicated. I can spend a day hunting for a specific word or phrase to make a sentence sound right. Sometimes inspiration fails me completely, as it did for all of June. I knew what I wanted to write. I just found that I couldn't. Even now, as I'm facing some big changes in my life, I've managed to rediscover the joy and excitement of getting stuck into a good project. It's a feeling that's been missing for the past few months and I'm so glad it's back. I can't wait to see what the future holds.

And I Have A Name

I am Bipolar.

I am addiction.

I am an illness.

I am a disease.

Yet I am not contagious.

You won't catch anything from looking at me.

You won't catch anything from talking to me.

Being around me won't suddenly take years off your life.

I am not here for your amusement.

I am not here for you to ridicule.

I am not here for you to point fingers at.

I am not here for you to talk about because I have "something".

I am not here to make you feel better about yourself because you don't have my "disease".

I am not a lesser person than you are.

I am a person.

I have a heart.

I have a mind.

I have emotions.

I have a face.

I have seen the best and worst of humanity.

I wear my scars, both inside and out, with pride.

I have seen the darkest levels of Hell and the highest glories of Heaven.

I am healing.

I am growing.

I have turned myself inside out to get to this point in time.

And I have a name.

My name isn't "disease."

It isn't "illness".

It isn't "Bipolar".

It isn't "Addiction".

It is the one I give you to call me by.

I am me, no matter what you think I am.