This spring just gets weirder. I am struggling mightily to stay on my medication and sleep schedules, I feel all racy and overstimulated inside, and NONE of it shows on the surface. Not even my family can tell how scrambled my brains are. In the past, I might have called this a mixed episode, though I can’t say I’m either manic or depressed. It’s not an episode at all. It’s just, well…weird.
Sleep is really hit-or-miss these days. I’ll sleep nine hours one night, and four the next. I dream all sorts of interesting dreams too. Last night I dreamt that Will and I were in Walmart and I was buying all kinds of plastic cups and plates in blues and greens, colors that remind me of the waters of the Caribbean. I was racing around the store grabbing whatever appealed to me, and he was smiling indulgently as if to say “that’s my wife, and I love her”. It was such a comforting dream, and one that was entirely realistic because I used to do that exact thing, especially in the spring and fall months. I was actually tempted to run to Wally World today and pick up plastic cups and plates in summer colors, until I remembered that my family has a little more class than that and we don’t use plastic cups and plates. LOL.
As for meds…I’ve taken them religiously for six years, and then in March I got a wild hair up my butt and experimented with them ever-so-briefly. No Bueno. Now I’m taking them, but every day, twice a day, I open up those pill boxes and stare at the meds, resenting them, wishing with all my might that I didn’t need them, and then literally forcing them down. I don’t know why all of a sudden it’s such a big deal, but I suspect it’s because enough time has passed since my last major bipolar episode that I think maybe I don’t need all of them. Then I end up feeling guilty for not wanting to take my pills, because I have the privilege of access to good psychiatric care and medications and there are a lot of people in this country who don’t. It’s kind of like the starving-children-in-China argument for finishing your dinner. I’m blessed to have the chance to CHOOSE whether I want to be sane or not—even though going bonkers really isn’t an option because I like my family and friends.
Then there’s this other curious notion about going back to work. As a nurse. No, I know in my heart of hearts that I can’t do it and nobody, not even the federal government, believes I should have to, but I wish I could make real money again. I don’t miss the politics or the physical labor or being treated like a child, but I do miss taking care of people. I miss the opportunities to be creative in solving problems. I even miss working with women, although that definitely has its drawbacks. My RN license renewal is coming up in January, and I know I’m going to have to let it go because I’ve had zero practice hours in the past four years. (You have to have at least 900 in five years, and I don’t.) That just makes it so…final. Then I come back to reality and realize that the job would make me crazier than a shithouse rat—again—within a few months, and I’m way better off now even though I have a very diminished role in life.
So here I am, and for whatever reason, whether it’s spring and/or a touch of mild mania, I’m restless and fidgety and I want to shake things up. Now, I don’t have the slightest idea why, or what “shaking things up” looks like, but it’s been this way since I almost went off the rails a month ago. My job is to figure it out before something goes sideways. Maybe I should try writing for one of the online mental health journals, like The Mighty or Healthline or Psych Central. They’re always looking for contributors. Or maybe I should take up chair yoga and learn to meditate (if I could just get my brain to shut up for a few minutes!!). Who knows?