The Disorganized Mind

I am hypomanic, occasionally slipping upwards to anxiety-wracked manic episodes, with what one of the doctors I saw in my recent hospital stay - the first - called a "disorganized mind".

I pounced on the phrase, "Yes! That describes it perfectly!"

My voice was strong, enthusiastic, and I was oh-so-delighted at this utterly brilliant phrase that sparkled with meaning.  Hypomanic glow gives me such appreciation for everything - words, butterscotch pudding, the doctors and nurses.

But that didn't happen until later.

First was the mixed state, the thought fragments that slipped and slid through my consciousness, energy sawing through my body that hurt, the inability to completely understand what was happening because I just couldn't quite manage to put together all the pieces.

I knew what was happening, but I didn't quite know what to do.  I have so effectively trained myself to take so little action when I am manic that I was frozen solid - don't speak, don't move, and for God's sake, do not buy anything. 

I could not bear to look anyone in the eyes, that was the strangest part.  I suddenly understood the symptom where manic's believe they can read minds - people's emotions and thoughts were betrayed by body language so loudly, even as my ability to accurately interpret it was so impaired that I couldn't bear to look.

I could write a huge post about the hospital, but this isn't it.  I'll leave it at - it was good overall, I got a new med, took lots of notes about depression that might be useful at some other time, and left a three page feedback note for the staff pointing out that advice for depressed people doesn't really scale well with manic episodes.  I played along nicely for the most part, set boundaries fairly effectively and came out stabilized - sort of.

So, third week in on my new med.  I'm still too high, too over-reactive, too close to the edge.  This med has seemed to help, but I usually have honeymoons with meds, as my body adjusts.  It's what is happening a month from now that will tell.

Too high, set up for a fall upwards - not downwards.  I had something happen yesterday that triggered me sharply upwards, with jagged edges, panic-not-delight.

I wish for resilience, but can't understand how to make it happen.

Angel, Angel, Burning Bright

There was an angel.

She wasn't a heavenly angel, because she was kind of me, but maybe me-who-I-wanted-to-be, wished-I-was.

She was tall, in that way that mothers are tall, to their children.

I have walked, walk, will walk along a cliff, it is my life.

Pacing me, along the cliff of my life is a dark cloud, a void, a portal to nothing.

The Neverending Story, The Wind In The Door, they described that dark, so I knew I wasn't the only one who saw it, others saw it.

They saw it, they Named it, they fought it.

Artax was lost to it, no matter how loud Atreyu screamed his name.

Sporos, stupid little Sporos, someone gave their life for you (me), because you (I) played too close to the edge and almost fell (don't do that).

That angel was my Meg, my Progo, my Empress (my mother), and she was me.

She brushed the hair from my eyes.

She put her hand on my shoulder.

She was warm, and reminded me that the dark was too cold.

She was cool, and reminded me that the dark was too hot.

Somehow, because of her, I kept turning away.

I'll keep turning away.

But I'll always need her help.