It is days like these that, while I
sometimes can feel them coming, still surprise me with their weight, their
power, their insistence on my immobilization.
Days like these when I can’t question there being something different, something
“wrong” with me. My to-do list
overflows, my plans await. Even if I
could feel something the day or two before, I’ve shaken it off because
preparing for it doesn’t make sense—there is no preparing. No predicting. It’s like planning for a car accident you know
is coming but you don’t know when it will come.
Sometimes I’ll get up in the morning early to go to the bathroom—at
3 AM, say, or 4 AM, and not have an inkling it’ll be here in a couple of
hours, knocking at the door.
When
it’s not here and I have energy I can’t imagine it any other way. I can’t imagine being immobile, tired,
drained, heavy. And when it’s here I
can’t imagine it any other way. It feels
as if it’s here to stay forever, always has been, always will be. Moving is something so difficult. No, difficult isn’t the word. So beyond the possible that I can’t imagine doing
anything. That I just am I wonder
why takes so much energy that I don’t even want to be. Reading or sleeping seems to take me away
from it, the thoughts, the impossibility of moving, the regret and guilt and shame. The self-stigma and mental beating.
The
nights before I will perhaps have binged on starch and sugar and fat—sensing
the lack of energy. My mind still can’t define
and translate the difference between physical exhaustion and this mental or
emotional breakdown. No calories will
prevent this. Will not bridge me over
the abyss, will not energize the depression.
That’s why when I’m depressed or semi-normal and “just” rapid cycling,
on the verge of almost fine, I’m overweight or fat. I can’t keep from overeating or emotional
eating or evening eating. I know
conceptually that the food won’t solve anything and sometimes the taste isn’t
even pleasing. But my body tricks me—my
mind keeps thinking the food will treat the bad brain days, keep me from
walking in pudding.
When
I’m manic and have energy it too seems like it will never end. I get rid of my fat clothes—I’ll never be fat
again! I pull out the skinny clothes
I’ve stashed in totes in basement rooms, catalogued by weight—160 pounds, 140
pounds, 120 pounds—gleefully letting time spin by at the same time it seems to
creep. Everything seems too fast and too
slow at the same time. I don’t sleep or
eat. I live on coffee and energy drinks
and cigarettes. I sit on my front porch
at 1 AM, 2 AM, and though I am awake more hours I am unable to get more
done. Where has the time gone? I have started more projects than I can
finish, have more ideas than I can write on my lists. I may have a day every once in a while in my
mania where my body crashes and I sleep 12 or 16 hours and I call it
catatonia—but it’s my body exhaling in exhaustion for a bit until I take it all
up again the next day—the world spinning faster than electricity.
But
today is the opposite of those days. Mania
is a set of skinny photos taped and framed wishfully from years ago as
reminders, pleas, admonitions. Today I
can’t imagine showering or going anywhere or calling anyone. My body is heavy, my brain slow. No one can help—why talk about it? It is here to stay. I’m letting people down—in the way back of my
head, guilt and shame shake their paws at me, pointing to responsibilities
unfulfilled and things undone. If my
thoughts spin, it is so far away from my consciousness and ability to care or
do anything about it. I am wasting time,
this exhaustion is unwanted, uncontrollable, inevitable. It is taking over and clouding out everything
around me.
I
know I need to eat but I stand staring at the cupboards, the refrigerator,
confused at the concept of mixing, serving, planning, cooking, or pouring even
the simplest of foods. I can’t even
think of showering because then I’d have to think of dressing—of choosing
clothes. I literally cocoon in
layers—heavy socks and pj pants: my bed has two quilts, a blanket, my robe, and a
sleeping bag over my sheet and I am tucked inside. It is too cold and too hot at the same
time. The door is closed and blinds are
shut—light is too much. My skin screams
at wrinkles in sheets and scratches of clothes.
I pull at my hair and lay lax for hours.
I read and sleep because that is all I can do.
My
hair when I’m manic and energized is in itself energized—it is curly. I have a photo of my hair cut short (I am
growing it out from a “cancer patient look”, as my daughter called it) on a day
we are grilling out in September for my son’s birthday, and my hair is so curly
and dyed burnt orange, that I call it the “curly fries” look. Now, my hair is just as short (and those of
you with curly hair will tell you that when hair is shorter, it curls more),
but it is oily and straight—only slightly wavy enough to look funny as it
dries.
 |
| Curly Fry hair, thin--hypomania |
 |
| Straight hair, overweight--Depression |
Finally,
later, I entreat myself to shower—promising simple clothes. I try little things. I move out to the living room. I fight the pudding slowly, at last.
Julie SE Paschold
January 19, 2019