It starts like this: the muscles in my face, just below my eyes and around my mouth, go completely slack. The top and back of my eyeballs ache and an exhausting dull pressure deposits itself on each temple. I am tired. Very, very tired. I just want to curl up in a fetal position in my bed, under my covers, and sleep. But life goes on. I have stuff to do. So, I do the stuff I have to do, with my long face and empty eyes. Sometimes I just stare. If you asked, I would have to really think what time and day it is. I want to be alone – except for my dog. I am sliding and I know it. I wake up and tell myself this is going to be a good day. And it is, for a couple hours. Then I start sliding. Sometimes I run home at lunch for a nap. I drink coffee and Diet Pepsi to stay awake. I don’t look at people when I talk to them. I look past them.

Wednesday my editor called me into her office. She knows me and my illnesses. She gets it. Several years ago, upon returning from a two month leave after a deep depression, I asked her to spot me. Keep an eye on me. Reel me in when you first see me start to slide. Please.

“You asked me to let you know. You are flat,” she said. “I see you’re having trouble focusing.” Gently, she asked me to call my doctor. I reluctantly agree. 

“Today?” she asked.

“Yes,” I sighed. “I hate this.”

“Why? Because it means you’re not perfect?” she asked – not sarcastic but genuinely concerned.

“No,” I told her. “If there is one thing I know it is that I am not perfect.” I have two divorces and a string of bad relationships to prove it. 

“I just hate this,” I explained. I hate having depression and bipolar. I hate that every time something bad happens to me, I can’t seem to control myself and my emotions like other people. I hate that I get so sad and scared. I hate that voice I hear in my head  that says, “Oh, she committed suicide.” I hate raging against that voice and screaming back – with every fiber in my being –  ”NOOOOOOOOO!” in my head. Suicide is never – ever – an option. 

 I can get through this. I will get through this. I always come out the other side. I am okay. I have done nothing wrong. I am a good person. I am just sick. And I will try very, very hard to get well and stay well. I am not a quitter. This is about chemicals and hormones.  

So, I called my psych-nurse practitioner and my therapist. My nurse adjusted my meds. It will take a couple of weeks before I know if the new dosage works. Then I met with my therapist – until 8 pm. I need to remember that I am in charge of what I think. I do not have to obsess over what has happened. 

I know that. But it is so hard.

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From Psych Central's website:
PsychCentral (May 16, 2009)

    Last reviewed: 15 May 2009