For those uninitiated, I’m a writer and part-time teacher living with Bipolar II, which means my highs fill me with limitless joys and my lows leave me in zombified form.
For me to type, the words “I’m writing” means the following:
I brushed my teeth.
I left my bedroom.
I opened my computer and, instead of flipping through social media, I thought about my novel.
Okay, so technically I’m not writing. Editing, really. But, if you focus on my first point, “I’m productive,” I deserve a slap on the back. Or, a hot fudge sundae. Man, I haven’t had one of those in years.
Writing and Bipolar Disorder, no matter the type, and there’s four by the way (I, II, Mixed, and Cyclothymic), project as if they were estranged siblings. Oil and water. Truth and politics. The Kardashians and natural bodies. Although, I cannot lie. In the midst of manic episodes, I can rip five chapters without fail.
Are they lucid chapters? Well, editing exists for a reason.
But, when my depressive episodes hit, I sink and writing’s a pariah. A Nordstrom sale asking me to pass and not enjoy fifty percent off Jimmy Choo shoes I’ve craved. My computer would ordinarily face ignorance, but with social media, I focus elsewhere and my writing remains untouched. Typing one word becomes lethargic against my lethargy.
Lifting a finger can hurt. Trust.
However, with a new antidepressant added to my daily cocktail of anti-psychotics, prayers, and chocolate, new spirit fills my body and soul. Of course, I will continue to chart my energy and behavior (Ugh, almost a month!), but I will write.
You know what I mean.
By the way, Bipolar Disorder sure makes for some good music. Listen to Jimi express his experiences. Sweet music. Sweet music. Sweet music.
Featured art: Marta DeWinter Thank you! You’re amazing!