I miss the mad me

 

It sounds, I imagine, unbelievable if I were to say that I miss madness. Time is on its side, after all; 55 years until I sought help for what, by then, I knew well enough had to be bipolar disorder. Manic depression. This was three years ago.

I exist now with no medical or psychiatric help; all I have is a small cauldron of medications to keep me sane.

My moods are indeed more stable, with the top and bottom of them clipped. That still leaves an awful lot of space in-between for, well, potential insanity.

Something of me has gone. Maybe it’s me? After all, you live with someone long enough you get to know them, maybe very well – or what you imagine to be so. What’s gone for me is my creativity first and foremost; I am a poet, novelist, photographer, painter. Or at least I was. No, I still am. I just don’t do it as much. I’ve started to write a small amount of poetry again and I’ve always taken photographs. I’ve written no fiction in a few years and as I say, a piddling amount of poetry that I don’t know the value of. Is it any good? Well, it gets published – is that an indication in these days of online magazine and journals? Depends which one I suppose.

Madness gave me a sex life. Rather too much of one I suppose. And with it, some confidence and a way around the crippling social anxiety I have now or when sane. Luckily I escaped the uncontrolled spending that may people with bipolar have. I’ve had no inclination to go out and buy a Harley Davidson or a sports car. I did buy several Fairport Convention albums and a load of cheap watches. I am holding down a good job (I have no idea how) and I can handle this limited expenditure.

After all, in the past, whilst manic, I’ve got married soon after beginning a relationship. And bought a one-way ticket to India (and used it).

I read a lot of blogs and articles about bipolar; I’m pretty much a textbook case, though one of my psychiatrists (when I had some) said I was an ‘unusual case’. This, I assume, is because I have both ultra- ultra rapid cycling (ultradian) bipolar as well as a more typical cycling form that has varied from rapid cycling to a longer cycling model.

Some things are much easier for me now, medicated. I had several months of CBT but it didn’t seem to have worked for me. Maybe if I’d been medicated at the same time it would have helped? Some things surfaced during that therapy that I didn’t like, didn’t feel at all comfortable with. Specifically, bipolar dissociation and even DID itself. One of the more ridiculous things my therapist suggested was that I free the other self inside me (and in the mirror) to see what happens. No, thank you.

I can’t honestly say the ‘extremely intrusive suicidal ideations’ are any less present. Maybe a little less severe though. Maybe not.

You might have by now a sense of what I mean by missing madness? When manic or hypomanic – and especially when in mixed moods – I often have no idea what I’m doing. Sometimes I know afterwards, often not at all. I have memory lapses (dissociation?) that scare me. My short term memory is wrecked. I live a separate life in dreams, though I’ve not slept through the night even once in decades.

I’ve put on a load of weight since starting the meds – I usually sum up the choice of being medicated or not as fat or mad? I seem to have chosen the former, though as I said at the beginning of this piece, I’m far from convinced that I’ve made the right choice.

 

 

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Those manic moments

A few things I’ve done whilst manic:

 

  1. As a young child, had a ‘vision’ that Jesus had leprosy. Also, at nursery school, had another ‘vision’ with depersonalisation.

 

  1. As a teenager, had other religious ‘visions’ including psychosis.

 

  1. As a teenager, the planet Venus told me (in compressed time) the philosophy of Plato’s ‘Symposium’.

 

  1. Got married. (It didn’t last.)

 

  1. Bought a one-way flight ticket to India. (And used it.)

 

  1. Been a total slut.

 

  1. Marched up and down the living room wielding a large kitchen knife, frequently stabbing the dining table.

 

  1. Had various delusions, most of which I still have (to some extent) despite meds.

 

  1. Bulk bought: cheap wristwatches; USB pen drives; clothing; etc.

 

  1. Written what I estimate to be more than a million words since my teenage years: fiction (several novels), poetry (thousands – many published), reviews, plays, etc.

 

  1. Wrote a 70k word autobiography in two weeks at the age of 20-ish despite nothing actually having happened in my life at that point.

 

  1. Made 20+ ensō paintings in 10 mins or so (total). The lawn was covered with them.

 

  1. Driven up to the Black Mountains obsessively, 3x a week for a couple of months.

 

14. Danced on a table in the staff room at lunchtime. No-one seemed to notice.

 

trees

When it happens, it will be

 

When it happens.

 

 

I will die on a Sunday, when the crisp
web of a dewy morning sparkles,
heavy as rope.

It will rain, and its perseverance will
hammer heavy on my soul.

I will die on a Sunday, and Monday
will be empty but for a silence; a
sadness that evades sentiment but

evokes melancholy amongst the few.

* * *

Poem – ‘Sunday, so’

Sunday, so.

 

 

 

I’m ill today. I know I

say that every Sunday

but it’s true, I do.

 

I’m low today; I know

there’s nothing new to

tell you, but I’m low.

 

So the wind swings

from the autumn trees,

I ache from head to

 

toe, that’s so. Elbows,

fingers, knees and toes,

the sort of pain that

 

lingers throughout the

day and blinds the night.

I’m right, I’m ill today.

 

Poem – ‘Check List’

Check List.

 

Mustn’t cross this knife with this

spoon with this fork with this

knife. Must check that window’s

shut now for the tenth time; line

 

of sight not enough must touch

must repeat beneath breath the

mantra, the spell, must put left

shoe on before right must walk

 

upstairs again. Must check the

windows. Must lock the door,

try the handle; time after time

try the handle. Get to the gate,

 

go back check the handle.

Did I shut that bathroom

window? Must go back in

must check must reset the

 

alarm. Make an exit.

 

Poem – ‘I am Full of Bees’

I am full of bees.

 

I am full of bees; every

cell of my being every

breath of my soul aches

 

and pains day and night

night and day ad infinitum.

Gravity is in league with

 

this illness; I’m pulled

down. Down towards the

centre, making my feet

 

heavy, dripping the atoms

that compose me, leaving

me heavy but with little

 

mass. And I’m tired; you

couldn’t even guess how

much I’m tired. I don’t

 

sleep. Never have. Mired

in that sinking sand I’ve

tried everything. Nothing

 

works. My opponent is

me; however the moods

make, take, me. I am

 

full of bees; each cell

buzzing with exhaustion,

creating a sea-swell of hell.

 

 

Easter Sunday

Easter Sunday

 

 

 

Today, again, I’m not me. Today,

again, I see reflections of elsewhere;

else-one. Some other to be. Buzzing

with a particle pulse of happening,

sampling on another level, distant.

 

Withdrawn and imagining how the

smooth cut of a wet stem makes

the flower undone. I’m not here

today; something is, but not me.

I am that close to the atom, see?