Over the past 2 months, some of my meds have changed, and if there’s anything to know about psych meds is that it generally takes 4-6 weeks to really take effect. So two different mental health professionals increased two different medications, and they came to fruition together the other week. For once, I wasn’t feeling pure dread or dealing with as much SI (it’s still there, but it isn’t quite as strong). This was a great feeling. But it kept growing and I became scared. Of myself. Of reality. I began to question my core. Am I really Bipolar 1? It’s not something that you can diagnose on your own, so that seemed problematic.

I pondered for a few days.

I realized there are many events in my life that I can’t take away that would clearly qualify me for such a heavy diagnosis.

Yes, I screamed at a _sheriff_ at 2am over a STOP sign (and yes, I was right); I escalated this encounter immediately. Apparently, you’re supposed to stay in the car until they come up to you, but yeah, that didn’t happen.

Yes, I called my DBT program over a weekend non-stop because I didn’t like someone in the group and the DBT voicemail line kept cutting me off… so on Monday when I returned there were nurses there to take me to the inpatient ward. I didn’t remember making the phone calls. Maybe two weeks later, the psychiatrist that I was working with at the time told me my diagnosis. I didn’t really question it at the time, as I was clearly manic.

My diagnosis is not who I am, so I’m not clinging to that to justify everything else that happens to be true.

About a year later, I stopped taking my meds, and less than a week after that I had my first psychotic break: the adults that were monitoring all the kids running around my studio: they were real to me but no one else could see them (they weren’t there it turns out, even if I did cover my coffee table with glasses of water to accommodate them). I went to Stanford hospital this time and the doctors there gave me the same diagnosis.

The suicide attempts. More than half a dozen psychiatrists in total. ECT that only barely worked. Months long inpatient stays. Too many years of therapy and far too much DBT (that I’m still working on). Grandiose and impulsive thoughts and behaviors that I can’t shake.

These things can’t be taken away from me. They really happened.

Sure, I love the feeling of finding the perfect medication cocktail (along with therapy) that works and I get to feel “normal” for a bit of time, but that cocktail only works for a few months at best. This time it just so caught me off guard that I mistook “managed” for “fraudulent.” It was only when it got scary that I knew it was something more. Awareness is the skill I rely on heavily, knowing that it usually comes late, but knowing that it comes is all I can ask for. I missed my PT session on Wednesday because of this fear, though I still went to the appointment, just to quickly explain to my physical therapist that I was having some mental struggles and that I won’t see her until after my surgery next week (torn ACL). I purposely made an appointment the week after surgery to make it harder to just disappear. See, awareness.

Having to take care of the physical self to make sure that the mental self works (this can go either way). It’s a struggle.

With a mental illness and non-visible disability, you can be whoever you want in a way. What I mean to say is that you’re not required to tell anyone your status/diagnosis. You most certainly can, but maybe that Lyft driver only needs to think that you’re a consultant at the hospital that you go to every day for months on end. On the East Coast, while in reality my day job is seeing a different health care professional near daily, I’m now a “creative writer” (‘magical realism’ more specifically) or a “cultural phenomenon” (even though I’m not quite sure what that would entail). You’ve no need to share unless you feel it. It can even be a safety thing: people knowing that you can’t comprehend everything could take advantage of that.

Of course, with my memory being as pathetic as it is, I can’t keep track of what of I’ve said to whom. Maybe my PT sees me as disabled (without a job), or maybe it’s my stylist. Anyways, there just aren’t that many Lyft drivers around these parts. So perhaps one day I’ve told my real story to my PT, and then at a different session I tell her something completely different (“writer” is a fairly accurate fall back though, no matter what, and I generally try to spend some time daily working out things that are in my head and putting them together on paper, or at least digitally, though I have plenty of half-used notebooks as well).

Who do you see yourself as? Not that there’s anything wrong with accepting complete disability (I have, to an extent), it’s just about finding something within that space that works for you and keeps your mind busy.

Last Saturday was my wedding anniversary. I spoke of it to no one. How did I feel about it; I’m not quite sure. Ashamed that I’ve lost touch with her family, as they hold the recording of the ceremony, and though I have some photos, I have no idea where my vows are tucked away, but I remember feeling proud about writing and delivering them.

My calendar is literally filled with anniversaries or birthdays, all reminders of the past/present/future, and I have my routines to minimize feelings for those days, but I never come out quite right the following day(s), and now that I’m starting straight with a care team (and physical therapy), I’m not left with much time to process all of everything. Sure, there’s the “hurry up and wait” aspect (learned long ago in NYC and solidified in Silicon Valley) that I can’t shake that is really running the show and throwing me off balance, but what did I expect?

I was nowhere near thriving, let alone “getting by,” back when I lived in Oakland, but I knew my schedule and the routine and I was in control of everything. Cities can help with that: the ability to walk to where you need to be and not be in need of owning a vehicle. That, coupled with the ability to more or less set my own “schedule” based on my feelings and emotions, made it feel alright (so say I wasn’t up to walk to the grocery at a given time, I was able to just find a time when I was ready—everything revolved around my emotions).

My dad turned 75 this week, and I did nothing beyond pondering when my relationship with my only living parent spoiled. I’m not certain I’ll live that long, so maybe I can find some reprieve in that he has had a full life already. It pains me to know that he doesn’t wish to buried next to my Mom (which is problematic at best), but I have to let go and realize it’s his decision, just as I decided to move from the East Coast to the West, the furthest I’ve been away from my family, right as I was more outwardly showing signs of mental illness (moving across the country with no where to live and no job, with my carry-on being a cat and only a small amount of clothing should say plenty about my mental state).

I’d like to think that my writing is more upbeat than my mood, but in general, I know that anything I position in the outer realms has its own belonging: sad story, mixed with a more upbeat spin, never capturing the true highs or lows. I really won’t know until a day or two later. I’ve gotten better at awareness, but it’s not in the moment quite yet, and who says it will ever be. In the meantime, I throw out apologies sometimes in the future and hope that it’s understood.

I’ve spent so much time in DBT classes, but have only walked away with the knowledge that there’s help for me somewhere, and I can travel back in time and find those skills and somewhat remember them.

At least there’s help for me in some form moving forward.

I think that if only I had more charisma, I would easily put all my energy into forming a “cult.” The elephant in the room here is that I have a mood disorder so there’s no way I could be consistent in leading such a group. It does sound fun though, doesn’t it? I have so many versions of beliefs and belief systems (this is where my mind goes when I’m hypomanic or straight up manic), but I’ve yet to figure out what the purpose of this activity would be; most cults focus around finances, but I’m not like that. I’m more of an anti-finance guy; sure I live on it out of need, but I’d rather have a free society/counter-culture space.

A friend recently told me of a “nightmare” that she had the night before. Here’s the txt’s, in full and uncensored:

You came out for a visit and got with some group of overly friendly cult-like folks. You were all manic and stuff.

It was BAD

All these people lived together in a big, dirty house. I think it was Halloween. For some reason we were at my old school - SF State - and that's where you met them. I think some of them were students. Their house was by the school and they invited us over for a Halloween party.

Most were related to one another (siblings, cousins) but no one was sure who was related to whom. They all slept together, though - gay, straight, didn't matter. They were all fucking.

Somehow they lured you in with their overt friendliness. I was hesitant, and you told them I liked Anthropologie, so they were like "here, try these anthro dresses on!" I still didn't wanna go, but you were already hooked in so I was like shit, I guess I gotta keep an eye on Ian.

When I got to their place, you were already there and dressed like...a hippie going to a 1970's disco party. They were all dressed like that. When I walked in they immediately threw all kinds of anthro clothes on me and it was super overwhelming. Oddly, they did have fitting rooms like Anthro's. Anyway, when I came out, you and a bunch of others were on a couch and you were all cuddling and getting high together. I was especially worried bc the gayest, sluttiest guy in the house was all up in your business and you seemed fine with it, and I know you're not gay. I kept throwing you looks like "dude, are you ok with this?" but you were way into the drugs. I excused myself to the bathroom (didn't need to go; I just wanted a minute to gather my thoughts) and when I came back out, you all had left. I started to panic. I asked whoever was remaining where you all went, and they were like "oh, ian and (bunch of names) went out to grab a cab" and I was like "but where are they going?" and the answer was unclear, so I started to get upset. I called your phone and some woman answered. I asked where you were and she said "he's ok, he's with us!" I said yeah, but it's not that safe for him to be out like that (meaning, unaware) because he has bipolar, and he's not himself right now!" She then told me "well, we're still waiting for a cab if you wanna come outside" so I ran out there and my dream ended.

Leaving aside my friend’s ability to dream, some part of this could easily be true, or maybe even partially what I want (really just living off the land—the rest, the drugs, the sex is NOT me). Reminds me of all the dirty, dusty “structures” that were falling apart, back when I went to so many shows (of the music kind) in Williamsburg, Brooklyn; very unsafe areas too.

I moved across the country and the friends that I left behind still care it seems: “take care of Ian.” That, and they knew my attitude towards capitalism. Solid.

None of us necessarily chose this life: our mental health and physical health, all in shambles as they’re tied together. So in addition to having bipolar, I got the doctor’s reading from my MRI last week and I’ve fully torn my ACL (“ACL: Tear of the anterior cruciate ligament proximally, favored full-thickness”) in a spite of mania, thus slowing down my management in assembling a mental care team and also getting the care that I’ll need, seeing I’ll have both PT and surgery.

I’ve been going on and on with my therapist about control. I won’t submit to some higher power, unless I feel that I’m right, in which case I own said control and power. I choose to be a vegetarian, based on ethical beliefs, yet I’ve received pushback from some psychiatrists that it’s only acceptable, given my current state of anorexia, to be based on religion, and if it was based on religion, I would get a pass. What’s the difference though really: ethics and religion seem one and the same to me, or at least close enough. The same principle applies to the two something decades of living in pedestrian-first cities; it’s not like that here, and I still want to be right.

I’ve given control of my health, via a POA, to my brother, and while I do need him to help, I want him to come to the same conclusion as me, which he often doesn’t, and I can understand that: he’s dyslexic, not bipolar.

There's no vestige of a beginning, no prospect of an end

That psychiatrist MD has burrowed in my mind and continues to make me doubt myself and my own diagnosis. Looking back, it’s unlikely that she had any of my paperwork from my history, but she was happy to interrupt my storytelling to question my mental well-being, suggesting multiple diagnoses (and maybe she’s not wrong). I took these feelings to my therapist, who then ensured me that my current “psychiatrist” sees my pain. Needless to say, I won’t be seeing that MD again.

I saw my PMHNP-BC (quite the mouth full) this week, and the new physical injury just makes things more difficult, but she’s okay taking things slowly, not that that does my day-to-day any better. She’s not as aggressive with trying medications (and I’m not going to give advice on them here), so it’s a long, slow, daily burn. I can’t find my/didn’t bring my DBT handbooks when I moved, which is more than unfortunate, as they aren’t something that I can just buy; the hospital had made their own, and being familiar with it, it worked for me. (Anyone in the DBT program at Herrick Hospital in Berkeley, CA?)

Monochrome coloring books for me for the time being.

For years, I’ve wanted to spend my birthday alone, without fuss. I suppose that I didn’t want any attention drawn to me specifically. I’ve never gotten away with it, even if it was only a sole friend that wanted to treat me to a special restaurant for dinner. That is, until last year when I was fully able to convince everyone to stay away and treat it like any other day. This would have been fine, but for some reason my dad’s wife emailed me, after having not communicated in years. I was not in control of this situation. Email is email, and it just rolled in. I didn’t read it fully of course, but two days later I purposely OD’ed while watching “Dead Poets Society” (I woke up the next morning in pain and called 9-1-1 on myself…. after a day or so in ER, I spent the next three months inpatient, where I finally tried ECT, which had some effect). Now that I’ve filtered their emails and blocked their calls, I’ve chosen to be around folks this year. But alas, that plan didn’t go so well either, as my anxiety grew and grew. The day trip we had planned didn’t happen because I awoke with a killer migraine. The rest of the week was filled with care team appointments, and I knew I couldn’t cancel them, not only because I need them on my team, but they provided company. There was one new care team appointment that I won’t be following up on however; her style and mine didn’t mesh well; ie, she made it feel that it was my fault that I’m bipolar and that I should be ashamed of it. These feelings sent me spiraling the rest of the week, but now that I’ve made it this far through the week however without any serious thoughts or actions, I just might be okay for a while.

It seems that I now view a once “happy” holiday with something just as frightening as other traumatic incidents. Both my family and my care team even noticed.

Sometimes it’s about cutting things out to let something better in.

This isn’t the newsletter that I wanted to send today, but it’s the one that I felt that I could write about this week.

Now that I’m back on the East Coast, I had my first intake with a mental health specialist. They reviewed my history, we talked, and she said that while she could handle my case, I might need a true to form psychiatrist, as she described my case as “complex” (she would only handle “standard” cases on her own apparently). In other words, I need several more specialists, same as I had in the Bay Area.

The trips to Maui were wonderful, but scared the friend I was with: all my ribs are visible when I took off my shirt, and I continued to choose to not eat most meals. I had clearly lost most of my weight, and thus she was concerned. Swimming, whale sighting are tough (but we saw a lot of them!). The bamboo forest was too, but she didn’t venture into it, so I was only judging myself.

I have photos of me swimming in Brazil without a shirt from years earlier and I would say that I looked pretty normal, but who am I to judge.

All these meds list things like “sleep too much or too little,” or “eat too much or not enough,” so it’s hard to pin down the exact cause, but I know that I wasn’t anorexic before these meds.

Before I left Oakland, and in preparation for a move back to the East Coast, my therapist urged me to make a list of “THINGS THAT I’M LOOKING FORWARD TO.” I never got around to making that list as my anxiety was through the roof about getting ready for the move across the country.

Now it’s time to make a new, ongoing list: “THINGS THAT I WILL ACHIEVE.” So far, I’ve started out with a grandiose art project and an unachievable side hustle. Not looking good.

Then there’s sports, once something I excelled at, but are now somewhat ruled out, not just because of being anorexic, but because of a recent hypomanic fit, in which I abruptly ended a terrific conversation with my sister-in-law, and ran onto the field where my brother and nephew were playing soccer. I ending up tearing my MCL/ACL (this will be another long recovery period.) Now, without sturdy footing, I’ve been given the time to study the sport not as a player, but as a coach — a role that I’d never considered, but others have suggested it for me.

If nothing else, I have to emphasize that feeling physical pain was such a rush, having only been dealing with mental anguish (there were the two broken bones I got from falling during seizures, but this is a whole new level). The constant pain that I’m in, just makes me feel a change. I’m sure there are better ways to accomplish this for those with mental health disabilities however.

Sometimes there is beauty in our failures; just not always.

Having returned “home,” or at least being around family, I began to think, mostly about who they were when I knew them before I was diagnosed. Which then got me to thinking about who I am, or in my case, who I was. There are just certain attributes to one’s character that can stay or change. Sure, we’ve all grown up and our outer beings may be modified, but that core… it should stay with you.

In this instance, I was remembering my older brother when we were young. He was always kind, quiet, helpful, and more. He’s still that, but grown up. He does get upset, as he should because our public schools never dealt with his dyslexia properly. His teachers were frustrated at him about why he wasn’t “gifted” as my older sister and I, and basically told him to go read in the corner; the disturbing aspect there was that he is dyslexic and reading just doesn’t go well for him. Bad solutions, bad attitudes, bad schooling. Yet his temper about this injustice is mild at best; he’s not holding back either, it’s just how he expresses himself.

Then there’s me. I no longer recognize myself. Growing up I like to think of myself as more playful and kind in general. My brother and his wife kind of hinted that the traumatic brain injury I suffered triggered the massive change, and I can’t say that for sure is the true cause of my mental break. Being broke in Massachusetts, moving to Brooklyn with no job, moving to Portland with neither a job nor a place to live, and finally working at a Big Tech company are all things that blew my mind and led up to my dissociation with myself. My brother knew me best before I moved to New York, a city that practically forces mental illness on everyone. Living there simply couldn’t have been a positive for me.

Just keep track of who you are, if you can.

I’ve admitted to finding my Mom’s dead body, but the passing of my wife was different in its own ways and not something that I frequently discuss. First I had to “find” her, in the sense that she was away from home getting ready to go to Germany for her daughter’s art show. Not knowing exactly where she was each leg of the trip made it difficult to find out which hospital/police station/etc I should call. Believe me, I called plenty that morning. Again, another event that I can’t quite recall the details of, but I somehow made it through.

I can’t imagine that we’re born with the knowledge of what exactly to do in these situations, so I’d have to say that for me, it was a mix of mania with some sort of gut instinct. When I found my Mom, I screamed downstairs to my older brother to call 911, so I wasn’t exactly equipped. Finally, upon hearing the news, I only knew that I had to pass it on to her family, all on the East Coast, but who? Her Dad, who was quite ill at the time, her Mom, her brother, or her daughter, before she got on her flight too. Though I honestly can’t recall, I’m willing to bet it was her daughter. I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but that was the only news I had to share (bearer of good news seems like a foreign concept to me). I believe that I called her daughter, passing on information the same way it was passed to me in a way. I don’t like this story much, as I didn’t want her to be in the same position that I had been through, without a parent that she Loved.

Though thankfully, in a way, I can no longer remember, with my memory being that bad now or I’ve just blocked it like I did with my Mom. Sure I called my therapist and we talked but I have no recollection of the results.

Either way, I suppose that we can all handle more than we think. Do we just allow ourselves to forget and move on with every instance of grief: “I did the best I could at the time” or something like that until it’s just a fact of our lives? Describing myself as the sum of these traumas just feels… like not enough.

A hop, skip, and a jump in my care, coupled with the clouds and the cold have left me spinning out a bit. I did make contact with someone who will be a member of my care team, but not a psychiatrist yet. Changing your care team from one coast to the next isn’t exactly for the faint of heart, especially if you’re in a suburb and don’t drive and the only people you know have jobs (family) so they’re not around all the time. I still have panic attacks about what the psych wards are like here (we can go ahead and assume that I’ll need to be hospitalized sometime in the future while I’m here).

I try to get out most days, to walk around the lakes and find the geese and their goslings. I got to pet the smallest ones the other day, but had to cut my travel short because of a sudden onset of paranoia, believing that everyone around me was playing some part of an intense entrapment plot.

Lessons to be learned (again): keep your care continuous. I’ve wanted to go to the hospital every day for the past week, but without having a care team set up here, I feel stuck, and when I do finally get a therapist, I’m frightened by the sheer thought of how to “begin” telling the tales of my trauma. I try to remember that the Suicide Hotline is not just for feeling suicidal: they’re there to listen, but it’s like basically the same problem: where to begin. It feels so incredibly difficult to even start a conversation regarding my mental health, with anyone, after roughly a decade of therapy/hospitalizations (I’ve had at least four different psychiatrists though, so maybe it’s not as bad as I think).

On the plus side, while I may be fearful of the Suicide Hotline to talk, I’ve called 911 on myself several times before, so I can share the immediate tales that have me riled up to strangers, for sure—but that’s always been in the back of an ambulance.

“We all thought you were suicidal.”

Some of the last words said to me by a group of friends as we all graduated. It could have really helped if someone had spoken up earlier. How much of University did I miss out on because I gave off this “vibe?”

I can remember always sitting in the front row of a particular course (right by the professor, and there were only about thirty students in this class) and finding myself “coming to” somewhere near the end of the class; I suppose I spaced out or something during the class. I had taken no notes, I had not participated (at least I hope not — who knows what I would have shared, or did share), and there is no way in hell that I learned anything from the class itself; following those expensive-ass text books all semester was the only way I made it.

But really, it’s just a dick thing to say. Paraphrasing something that comedian Chris Gethard once said, it’s the people who are afraid that they might make things worse and choose to do nothing at all that are the real problem.

Four years of a top-tier University and no one had the gall to speak up. Sure, we were all learning, more as adults than the teenagers we were in high school, but not a word to me or to whatever health professionals would be on campus. My dad’s only words to me before attending my Mom’s service (“Don’t cry”) could be considered more mature.

Maybe I should take this as a “win” though, as I had just graduated with an undiagnosed disability, even if I always lived on campus housing surrounded by people that I knew, or could at least put up with my intense mood shifts. They may have thought that I was suicidal, but they still kept me close. I was never left out of group events, and years later, I was even the Best Man at one friend’s wedding (I didn’t handle that well though in oh so many ways), but I was there and chosen over other, more stable friends.

Sidenote:

I’ve never lived alone until my wife passed away, and that’s when the suicide attempts began. One would think living in Portland, because nothing says “mental well-being” quite like the PNW, was when I was a danger to myself, but no; she taught me to enjoy the rain, even laugh in its face to some degree. But now that I was alone, I was too paranoid, too manic, too depressed, too {anything} to reach out and find the help I needed. The hospital felt more like a home at this point: that’s where my care team “lived,” so they stood in as roommates. Now that I’ve uprooted myself to the East Coast, with the promise that I’d be near family, I’m living alone again, and don’t have a care team in place. My goal of moving back to Portland remains steady, however misguided it may be.

But hey, at least it wasn’t raining on graduation day like it was the day my Mom died.

I had been craving red velvet cake since Friday, when The Bean was all out of their vegan version by 10-something pm that night. The first open coffee shop we saw happened to have it and I was satisfied. Van showed me the Banksy exhibit in the West Village, and then surprised me with my very own bootleg copy of an $800 computer program. Before handing me the disc, he asked, "before I give it to you, you have to tell me—what's your inspiration?"
He asked me if I would categorize myself as an Artist. These were all very interesting questions I had never thought of. I told myself I would consider this later tonight.

He talks like an over-excited faucet with a sporadic southern accent and calls me "dude" a lot. I am overwhelmed, but I enjoy it. We talk about art and bullshit art-talk and I'm aware that that is exactly what I'm doing. I don't know art. The word goes through my mind so many times just then it begins to lose meaning. I decide to start over in my head, and I just listen to him being excited about things. I aspire to be excited about things. To me, that is an art in itself. When I get home I find an email from him quoting William Blake: "I must Create a System, or be enslav'd by another Man's. I will not Reason & Compare; my business is to Create."

To be honest, his enthusiasm in general is pretty inspiring. I leave the West Village listening to Billie Holiday and I believe that my capabilities are limitless. I am confident and flattered. I go home and make some decisions about tomorrow. I realize that all my choices are made depending on how much the results will allow me to sleep in.

I aspire to be excited about things once again, no matter how small.

(Sufjan Stevens - The Only Thing)

X-ACTO knives, an attempt to OD while watching “Dead Poets Society” (how prophetic), and even the constant willful suspension of jaywalking laws and motor vehicles versus my body… to me, it’s a long-term “win” to prove myself “right;” effectively passive suicidal attempts. Sure, I may be in the hospital or worse, but there’s no better feeling than being right. To me anyways. My brother firmly disagrees, but two-plus decades of living in cities where “pedestrian right of way” laws were firmly in place has jaded me. These actions were just from last year.

There’s nothing heroic about suicide; don’t fool yourself. Sure I have my believes that I cling to, whether it being vegetarian, or the tattoos that I’ve chosen over the years, but they’re stories to share with others if you want to. Suicide is generally a one-sided decision. Not to say that suicide is totally wrong: the mental pain one can go through can be overwhelming (even with all the help one can find) - I know this to be a contreversial viewpoint. In general though, it’s not a choice to be taken lightly.

On this subject, there’s the issue of other people’s “feelings.” I have great respect for that, but it’s hard to understand when your mind is constantly turning on you. Eight years of therapy and I’ve yet to get to this matter (something like “Opposite Action” in DBT terms). Perhaps being around family now will help, perhaps not.

We’ll see where this goes; it’s early still.

Now that I’ve returned to the State where my Mother died, I had hoped to visit her on Mother’s Day. That didn’t happen. It’s not that I didn’t want to “see” her, but I just wasn’t quite ready. Either way, she’s much more close by than before, and I can get a twenty minute ride to visit her when I am ready. It has been almost fifteen years since I last visited; that’s a lot of personal time for me to process. While I was away, I had my routines, encouraged by my therapist: I would often sage, I’d write, I’d try to remember. Being there in person won’t take away from these routines, but it’s special just being this near her, something that I’ve missed.

Everything in time, everything in time.

But time runs out.

Some days you feel. Some days you can’t. Being around other people with similar issues can be helpful, but as I’ve said before, it’s best to find someone that is both positive and understanding. Joining together in misery sounds great, but that’s not where it’s at.

DBT and support groups are a bit like this though, but they’re at least guided by one or more people that have training and can help you keep focused. I’ve never not been in a DBT group where we all break the rules of sharing contact information and stay somewhat in touch. There’s also always been some free time built into the days where someone admits to substance abuse just to get through the day, something that doesn’t seem to come up in session.

I’ve gone back to being straight edge since all my meds say “Do Not Take with Alcohol.” I still deal with my persistent problems with anorexia and being underweight enough that the meds either have too much or not enough effect and it’s plenty to deal with regarding my treatment. I don’t need to drink to “space out” anyways; meds do that for me. Then again, the meds are supposed to make “me”, “me” again.

Substance abuse is a heightened side-effect of bipolar. Mixing substances with meds doesn’t sound like a terrific idea, so stick to your schedule, don’t stray. Not taking meds has had horrific effects on my mental health, and I’m not a psychiatrist, so I do what I’m told (to the best of my abilities), regardless of the side-effects.

It finally happened: I moved back to the East Coast. I’m heading back to the physical state where I grew up and experienced a tremendous amount of trauma. I was undiagnosed bipolar 1. I found my Mom dead. A dead body, so unreal. My father wasn’t really there for me, and he was likely undiagnosed too (still to this day I believe). My brother was one grade ahead of me, so while he was there for some time to help, he needed to move on to university and live his life.

I’ve put off this move for any reason that I could, but my care team was adamant. The days and weeks leading up to a move, when you have to fly out your own brother to help, just whisk by. I had already leased an apartment, because the cost of a mattress and bed weren’t enough to allow me to flake. So two apartment fees, living off of Social Security Disability Insurance, and I’m supposed to relax. There goes my restricting anorexia again (current BMI: 16).

One thing about bipolar is that you should keep a steady sleep schedule to help control it. Flying across the country doesn’t allow for that (a decade or so of PST to a night in MDT to finally settle in EST).

I forgot to give thirty day notice of move-out, managed to take a Lyft to the wrong hotel (there were no direct flights, so we spent a extra night out West), and forgot to ship some furniture to my new apartment, among others. I had a list, but clearly forgot to update it.

Mistakes happen, but you don’t have to take them personally; it’s part of life, not your character/diagnosis. Breath and move on to the next mistake. Consider your blessings. In the meantime, live your life.

Looking back about 15 years ago, a friend had written the following when we went to see a show in Brooklyn:

At another point, a really annoying girl in an extremely stupid shirt meekly made her way to the very front by side stepping the boot I deliberately planted, attempting to spread out and save Ian's spot when he went to pee. When I didn't accommodate her intrusion in trying to fit into a space like a whale in a cupboard, she turned to me, dimly smiled and said, "I like your glasses."

She spent the rest of the show looking behind her and waving to a friend behind Ian and I and it was probably the closest I've ever seen Ian to inaugurating a Fight Club on anyone's face. I would've had his back.

This sounds familiar to something that happened late in 2024 when I was inpatient for about 3 months. I started out in a state-run facility for a few days before I ended up in a real hospital where I had access to my care team, I first tried ECT, and spent most of my time there for this treatment (of note: the most well known side-effect of ECT is memory loss). Thankfully though, when I was transferred, I had enough of my mind to remember my belongings, especially those that somehow hadn’t been transferred with me; this included my phone and my keys, effectively leaving me without the ability to make phone calls or access my studio were I to be released. Somehow a friend knew I was in the hospital (!!!), and at some point, I made a particular death stare when she told me that they were dragging their feet regarding transferring those items. The belongings were returned after a few weeks after some very harsh phone calls made by said friend. I smiled this time.

I didn’t know of this “intense expression,” where my face betrays my want to hold back negative emotions, until long after had been discharged.

It’s in me. Other people noticed. I didn’t. It’s normal.

With regard to the concert, I wasn’t diagnosed yet, let alone medicated, but I urge anyone to seek help if they feel even a bit off. A few words here and there with your primary care physician can make all the difference.

Oh so many years ago I knew things: what words I wanted to say and at the exact right time, how to spell, when to just listen, etc. Those days are long gone. As I glide deeper into my experiences with bipolar 1 disorder and all the medications that I have to take just to barely manage it, I seem to have lost these “super powers.” I’m left with poor explanations of what I really mean that never quite make all that much sense.

These days, I often start stories out loud to people around the half-way point, believing that they were in my thoughts all along so they were already up to speed. This creates chaos and confusion for the listener, and I’m rarely aware of my own mis-step. However, if one can keep up or just kind of knows to ask, then I’ve found a true friend. In my mind anyway.

This could be solved with technology: speech-to-text and all. However, at the moment, my anxiety/paranoia keep me from speaking aloud and I try to be as quiet as I can be.

This is all par for the course, and something that not everyone is dealing with, but it’s okay if it happens to you. You’re certainly not alone.

It’s an odd feeling when people in your care team recognize you and recall memories and you get to play pretend: DBT therapists, mental health workers, occupational therapists, nurses, staff, hell, even friends. I let them lead, hoping that something they say will jog my memory, but that’s never happened before. No, these are effectively new people, new experiences, new memories right now, as they’ll be the next time I see them too.

I no longer expect my mind to hold itself together. I need help, but it feels there’s no way I could build a new relationship that was outside of the realm of caretaker, yet I long to have such; the conversations and shared memories, not the caretaking. I wouldn’t burden anyone with me.

I do remember that my psychiatrist told me when I was last inpatient that I reminded him of Thom Yorke, lead vocalist of Radiohead. Not sure how to unpack that either, but I remember it at least. As for Radiohead, I don’t recall hearing “Creep” early on. My favorite song of theirs is still “Paranoid Android“. Judge me all you want, but my current state of paranoia just makes it oh so sweet.

Memories are a fickle thing. Don’t sweat it; let others take the lead if you need to. “I don’t remember” has been my catch phrase for so many years now, and there’s really no way around it.