I haven’t slept well in a few days. I’ve tossed and turned and woken up from a very light sleep nearly every hour, on the hour. I am very, very tired. I have a quick fuse with everything and everyone. I am so frustrated I could cry (and do).
This happens fairly often, nearly like clock work, though I’ve yet to determine just what exactly triggers it or what specific catalyst the cycle operates itself around. Every 4-6 weeks, give or take, I’ll experience a week or so of terribly unsettled sleep— for what feels like no reason at all— and then, like magic, fall right back in line and sleep normally. This never happened to me before I began medicinal treatment after being diagnosed with bipolar II.
Thought tempting, I won’t feel sorry for myself because I know the mere fact that I am able to receive treatment, have the means to pay for prescriptions and doctor’s visits and therapy is a privilege not everyone is afforded which is, in and of itself, a bullshit and inhumane story for another day. However, one thing I know for certain is that pain and suffering is subjective to a myriad of factors and, no matter the degree, to struggle with one’ own suffering is a legitimate human experience. And, the fact is, I am suffering.
When I began treatment for my mental illness nearly seven months ago, I made the mistake of assuming that it would be as easy as taking a pill. I thought I would approach this particular bump in the road just as I had approached my experience with postpartum depression. I would simply fix it. I would literally take the pill and feel like myself again, albeit a more emotionally and mentally stable version. What will come as a shock to approximately no one, it wasn’t that simple and here I am, all these months later, still attempting and failing and attempting again to fix what feels like a very broken self.
I’ve often relegated myself to dismissal of any struggles I’ve experienced post-diagnosis by many a well-meaning reminders that it could always be worse; I could be depressed. I could feel so empty and low again that I’d convinced myself that I was a burden on my family and friends and anyone who was emotionally invested in my wellbeing. I could be waking up every single morning feeling a never-ending existential dread, only making it out of the bed thanks to sheer willpower and the prospective shame I’d feel if I indulged my desire to stay in bed and sleep all day.
It could be worse was often uttered like a mission statement, a way for me to accept the unfortunate side-effects of taking the pill I had previously convinced myself would fix me. I’ve never considered myself a particularly vain person but the fifteen pounds I gained in a month made self-love harder than normal. I’ve always accepted that I am beautifully human and possess inherent flaws but when none of my clothes fit, I rejected the idea that losing control of my body would be added to the list of things wrong with me. So, I bought new clothes. (Privilege, I know.)
Once I finally began feeling more comfortable in my newfound fluffy body, the insomnia began and, as many of you know all to well, not sleeping is its’ own form of hell. And, in an effort to continue fixing myself, I started taking another pill to combat the insomnia. Its’ success rate hovers around 45%. But, just as I’ve done three times prior during the newborn chapters of motherhood, I adapted and managed. I accepted that I’d always be tired for one reason or another. I told myself that I’d dealt with worse— that it could always be worse.
And I was right. It absolutely could.
About two months ago, I started experiencing short term memory loss. Initially, I brushed it off as a result of being exhausted from not sleeping. It hadn’t occurred to me that the magic pill I was taking to fix my life was likely the culprit of making it difficult to remember my life. Then I had surgery— my fourth in seven years— which did not go well ( yet another story for another day). I told myself that not being able to remember what I read in a book or the tv show I watched before I fell asleep the night prior was being exacerbated by the general anesthesia. Maybe, just maybe, my body was still adjusting to this new normal? Then, yesterday morning, I couldn’t remember when Marlo came into my room Monday night when she couldn’t fall asleep and cuddled me for an hour. I couldn’t remember the conversation she and I had or her going back up to her room. Joe, who is nearly always calm and collected, looked at me, concerned and slightly skeptical since I can always recall the most minute details of things that occurred twelve years ago— like what I was wearing when we had a fight at such and such bar and what the fight was about and exactly what he said and when he said it. (The irony is not lost on me.)
Which is precisely when the dam broke.
I excused myself, quickly escaping into safety of my bathroom, and proceeded to ugly cry and physically shake for fifteen minutes.
I can handle having a larger ass and chubbier cheeks. I can manage being tired. What I can not handle is losing the memories of the fleeting and insignificant moments with my family— the fleeting and insignificant daily experiences which will no doubt one day in the future be remembered as anything but insignificant.
I can buy a new pair of jeans or a new dress. I can drink more coffee and squeeze in a nap or two. What I can not get back is time and time with my kids and husband isn’t something I feel I’m willing to sacrifice.
Which brings me to where I am now. With a bigger ass, chronically tired, heartbroken, and wondering when is it okay to declare that the pros no longer outweighs the cons? Could it be worse? Sure. But do I really want to know what’s next? Do I want to continue taking the pills that have seemingly have created more problems than the ones the pill was intended to fix in the first place? Is having to work substantially harder to feel stable— not to be confused with happy or positive— a better option than what I’m dealing with now?
What’s worse— losing your mind or losing time?
I’m not sure.
What I am sure of is that the Polar Express I appear to be riding doesn't shift course as easily as I thought it would. It’s not as simple as popping a pill and praying to the Big Pharma Gods that they fix whatever is broken in me. My destination remains unknown and the journey has proven to be just as nuanced and complicated and messy as the diagnosis itself.
What’s that thing that they say? It’s about the journey, not the destination? Some days, I’d like to call bullshit on that because some days, the journey simply fucking sucks. But, thanks to my tenacious grit and inherent optimism, I will continue to believe that the destination will prove worth all of the work I’ve put in in order to get there— wherever there is.