I realised today that it has been a while since I’ve written a mental health related post on here myself, I’ve posted a few from guests but I haven’t actually written any myself for a while.
I find it hard to open up when I’m deep in depression, it’s easier to focus on the mundane, or to do things which don’t require me admitting quite how sick I am, and so an influx of reading and book reviews happen.
The truth is, this time two weeks ago I was a the peak of hypomania, I was suffering with severe psychosis and I was heading for my “Crash Pad” moment. That’s what I call it, that moment where the world shifts from high to low, up to down.
I experience hypomania different from the “textbook” definition, at least that is what my care co-ordinator tells me. I am high, hyperactive, chatty, obsessive about tasks, exercise, completing my lists. I count, time, and note things religiously.
I have days where I am higher than others though, this is where I’m told I’m different, I don’t know this is normaly to me when I’m in this “phase”. I go from very hypo to off the charts borderline manic. I reach the point I’m almost delusional.
I don’t quite reach delusional, and I have inordinate amounts of empathy for people who have the type of Bipolar which comes with full mania. Just coping with hypomania is beyond words some days.
The psychosis wears me down, I get tired, exhausted battling visions, sounds, voices. Once this starts I know the “crash pad” moment isn’t far off. Last time it took a couple of weeks.
Sometimes it happens during the day, I will have a breakdown of sorts which is usually quite explosive and often ends with me in hospital.
This time I woke up on the Monday morning, my chest cramped with the overwhelming weight of depression. That and every morning since I’ve negotiated with myself to get out of bed. I know from past experience if I don’t get out of bed for even one day I’m done.
I’ve struggled to find purpose, the depression clouding my vision. I’ve become a recluse, It’s now been 4 weeks since I have gone anywhere further than my front porch (twice). The last of summer has passed me by through my lounge window.
Next week I will go out, I have to. I have an appointment with my new Psychiatrist. I’m dreading it, the anxiety is already at it’s height. But I know I have to get out of my front door, I have to start living again.
This is my first step, reminding myself to write these things down, my second step is walking out of the door, then getting on the bus.
I’ve done it before I will again.
This illness can cripple us, it often does, I’m always learning, ever evolving. I want to live with this illness not be controlled by it. At the moment I’m weaker than it, but that won’t last.