blobfish-a-go-go

Why is it so hard to be kind to ourselves—gentle, caring, compassionate—when inside and recovering from an episode? Because we are not who we grew up wanting to be, thinking we’d become. In that sense, we are failures. Because we are reminded every morning with that first pill that something is wrong with us, will always be wrong with us. Because we were taught to be strong women and men. We were taught that if we worked hard enough, were smart enough, we could do anything . Solve the problem! Pull yourself up by your bootstraps! “Pure Horatio Alger,” says Hunter Thompson, which should be our first clue if not our forty-seventh. It’s hard to be kind, gentle, compassionate, when our brains are incessantly tearing us down, trying to get us to give up, give all the way up. It’s hard not to believe your own brain. But we have to believe we deserve kindness and compassion from ourselves. It takes work. I’m certainly still working on it. It takes mindfulness and self-remembering

Already you know this is a false dichotomy, but it is my false dichotomy! The one I struggle with during every single episode. Although, usually, I weigh in heavily on the side of fight. But I get ahead of myself. What the fuck am I talking about? During a bipolar episode, the mood wants you stay in bed; wallow; all carbs, only carbs. Or let’sgo-dothething-postwithoutediting-makeithappen-goplay-revrevrev. You get the point—give in. My immediate reaction, once I figure out what’s going on, is to tell it NO. I don’t want to be in an episode. If I just do the right thing, think the right thing, it will go away and I will be me again. I fight hard, but the fighting feeds into the mood: I’m failing at life because I can’t control this; I’ll read every single thing about bipolar until I find my fix. When really, the best way to handle an episode is probably self-compassion. I say probably because I’m awful at it and can’t speak from experience. But I’m going to try being gentle with my

A lot of people with bipolar (and all kinds of mental illnesses) drink. I mean a lot , and they drink a lot . There is a sweet spot between “I shouldn’t be doing this” and “This is when the bad decisions start,” a sweet forgetfulness, a freedom from the absolute fucking grind that is living with bipolar. So yeah, I drank. And once I was diagnosed and medicated? I drank then too. Did I know that alcohol and psychotropic medications were a bad mix? Yes I did. And then my psychiatrist said if I didn’t stop we were "going to have a problem.” Said it just like that, like a mob boss.  He didn’t define “problem,” so I was free to fill in the blank: maybe he’ll stop prescribing my meds, maybe he’ll stop treating me altogether. Maybe I’ll end up back at square one. Oh fuck. So now I drink maybe half a beer maybe once every other month. I don’t miss the bad decisions. I don’t miss wrecking the all-important sleep schedule. I don’t miss getting sick and dangling one foot out of the

All of my life, nighttime has been my favorite time. I’m most at peace, most relaxed and myself at night, when the world has gone to bed. When there is no more work, no chores or errands, and the phone can safely be ignored. Loved ones sleep soundly, needing nothing from me, and I am free to write, to read, to watch old movies, to unwind completely, stay up late in the quiet dark, and simply be. But the number one signal/trigger of a bipolar episode is disturbed sleep. My respite has consequences. So now my sleep hygiene (such a Dr. Kellogg kind of term) is perfect. A good eight hours every night (drug induced if need be). No caffeine after three, if at all. No alcohol. No wild nights out. The choice is follow the routine or lose even more days to the disorder. Be good or else.

Rapid cycling bipolar means always having to say you’re sorry. Sorry I said that. Sorry I can’t make it. Sorry I promised to do something I can’t now. Sorry I can’t stop crying. Sorry I got busy (with some bullshit) and forgot. Sorry I’ve changed my mind, again. Sorry I was angry over nothing. Sorry I stopped speaking. Sorry I’m so high maintenance. Sorry I can’t be around people right now. Sorry I talked all night and didn’t let you sleep. Sorry I canceled our plans, again. Sorry I wasn’t listening. Sorry I have the emotional self-regulation of a toddler. Sorry there aren’t more good days. But there are more than there used to be.

To earn a rapid cycling badge, a person has to have four or more episodes in a year. Good times! I can’t begin to imagine what that’s like with full-blown mania. Hypomania and depression are enough, thanks! Before I got an accurate diagnosis and serviceable meds, I rarely went two weeks before starting a new episode. Up, down, up, down, up, down. It took years of work to figure out my baseline, i.e., what it feels like to just be me. I still have 4–10 days every few weeks when I’m very up, very down, or first one and then the other. I know some of my triggers: stress, lack of sleep, too much alcohol or caffeine. But some episodes come out of the blue. Rapid cycling means you never know. It means you can be in the middle of an exceptionally bad day before you realize, “Oh, this is depressive irritability” or whatever. And then you’re supposed to have the presence of mind to apply the tools that help you minimize any damage. Which is to say, it gets the jump on you, and because

There are two major differences between mania and hypomania. The first is one of degree; the second is psychosis. Hypomania can do damage. It can fuck up relationships, end jobs, empty bank accounts, and all kinds of other outcomes of impaired judgment and lack of control. Mania blasts right through that stuff and into immediate extreme consequences like violence, jail time, and/or hospitalization. Complete detonation. And if there is any kind of deviation from reality, that is, by definition, mania. Delusions, hallucination, extreme paranoia—any form of psychosis that can’t be attributed to another diagnosis like schizophrenia or schizoaffective disorder—that’s mania. And mania means bipolar 1. But again it might be a matter of degree. During the worst of my episodes, I experienced paranoia and inflated self-esteem (delusions of grandeur), but not enough to get my label switched from 2 to 1. Bipolar 2 is like a thunderstorm­—there’s lightning, wind, a deluge even. It’s a littl

Hypomania means elevated mood and energy. When you see bipolar romanticized , it’s likely hypomania they’re talking about. Increased creativity and drive do lead to increased output, but also to obsession, neglecting loved ones and your own health. Six of the books I’ve written were first scrawled during hypomanic episodes. I know of which I speak. When I’m hypomanic, I think I’m smarter, funnier, stronger. I think I heal faster. I also have zero impulse control. Some people in hypomania go on spending sprees, gamble, or have a lot of sex. It is the worst time to make life decisions and almost impossible not to. Hypomania is addictive. It feels so good, until it doesn’t. In a depression, man, all I want is a little hit of that hypomania. Not just for the joy, the brightness, the buzz, but to feel jazzed about something, anything, to have drive and purpose. Hypomania is hard to give up (to slam the door on with long- and short-term medication) but treating the bad in this case

Welcome to BLOBFISH-A-GO-GO, a blog about living with rapid cycling bipolar 2. My name is Amy Vaughn. I’m an on-again-off-again teacher, writer, and editor. My intentions for this blog are twofold: (1) to help me process what is proving to be a new phase of living with bipolar and (2) to maybe help some people better understand their own or their loved one’s experience. I intend to limit each post to give or take 200 words. One idea in a one minute read. My mascot, the blobfish, is a public domain drawing I found on Wikimedia Commons. Here are his details: By Gb89.2 - Own work, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=103236660 I have another website all about my writing, which I steadfastly neglect. But if you’re interested, it’s amymvaughn.com .