In 2002, Dr. James Kaufman of California State University in San Bernardino conducted a retrospective study of 1,629 writers that showed poets — specifically, female poets — were likelier than non-fiction writers, playwrights, and fiction writers to have some mental illness. He coined the link between creativity and mental illness as "The Sylvia Plath Effect."
Popular culture has long stereotyped poets as depressed and creative scientists as mad. The idea of a link between creativity and mental illness goes back to the time of Aristotle when he wrote that eminent philosophers, politicians, poets, and artists all have tendencies toward "melancholia." Professor Kay Redfield Jamison is an international authority on the subject, both as a psychiatrist and as a person with bipolar. She observes that manic-depressives in their high or manic state think faster and associate more freely. When manic, people need less sleep and have unusual energy, remarkable focus, and an inflated self-belief, all of which may allow the production of original work. Depression may be the flip side of the creative manic state and the price artists pay for their bouts of productive work. There is no question that the writing processes of people in a bipolar episode differ from the typical processes of others. The differences are significant and complex. One is that writers who are symptomatic or undergoing treatments are forced into or barred from specific abilities despite their struggle not to be. If editing is needed, but the person is in a manic or hypomanic state, the editing might be over the top. If idea generation is necessary, but the person is depressed, such idea generation may not be possible. If drafting by hand or taking notes is usually the most effective for a writer and that writer is undergoing specific treatments, hands may shake too much to use, and vision might double or triple. In addition, ideas may be foggy, and chunks of memory may be erased. I’ve often experienced what I would come to call depression block. It's not writer's block. I've experienced writer's block, where I get to a specific part of the story or something else I'm writing, and I don't know how to continue. But no. When it just comes to a screeching halt, you know, it's the illness. And I can't get up on top of it for some reason. With depression block, there is the sheer difficulty of putting anything on the page: difficulty finding even the most basic words, difficulty coming up with ideas, difficulty keeping things together, difficulty mustering the energy to write, and difficulty mustering the energy to even sit at the computer. I'd get to the computer, sit, and watch the line blink. And I'd try to type and get a sentence in a half hour. Then I wouldn't say I liked it. It was so frustrating that I would go back to bed. Depressive symptoms such as apathy, anhedonia, low self-confidence, lack of thought, and low energy kept me from being able to write. As much as writing meant to me, I didn’t want to have a thing to do with words when depressed. I also experienced anhedonia, a loss of enjoyment in otherwise pleasurable things, including reading and writing. This loss of enjoyment was all the more pronounced because I wanted to identify as a writer. I felt like a fraud. Whenever I thought of picking up and writing, I felt unworthy, and it stopped me. You can't write when you're depressed. When writing is possible while depressed, such writing tends to be personal. Even if I did write, the work is never whole because I lack the energy and the ability to make something coherent and structured. In most hypomanic episodes, I had the feeling of flow. It was the feeling of everything, like your knowledge of words, your memory about your life, your analytical skills, and everything flowing together to make it come out to be just about as complete and sound as possible. Everything in the world was connected, beautiful, and had the utmost meaning, and everybody appreciated that meaning. But, as the hypomanic episode progresses toward mania, the precise and swift connections and flow of hypomania can get more and more "out there" and more bizarre. The clarity becomes incoherent. Manic writings begin to have no substance to them. The pen keeps moving, and it doesn't make any sense. As mania progresses, the writing might become frantic and illegible, and one might be unable to keep up with one's thoughts. You can’t write as fast as you can think. Ultimately, psychosis can make the writing so disjointed - if the person can gather thoughts to write at all, the writing makes no sense. In The Midnight Disease, neurologist Alice W. Flaherty writes about hypergraphia, or "the overpowering desire" to write, which accompanies mania. Like writing in a depression, writing in a mania parallels manic symptoms. For example, people tend to be more verbose, have more thoughts, and have those thoughts at incredible speeds. In addition, they might experience pressured speech - a clinical hallmark of mania, which for writers can mean writing more and more. You think you're writing the most significant thing ever when you're doing it. And it's very humbling when you go back and read it, and it's so broken up. Artists often resist taking medication, fearing that losing the instability will also mean losing their creativity. But Jamison, who is on lithium for bipolar, says recent studies of artists and writers diagnosed with bipolar and taking medication found three-quarters were as productive or more productive on medication. She says the destructive effect of depression on the brain, the progressive nature of bipolar, and the genuine risk of suicide argue against refusing treatment. “No one is creative when severely depressive, psychotic or in four-point restraints…Artists and writers tend to focus on the risks of treatment and not on the risks of no treatment.” Treatment enables me to be more creative because I am more stable. My medication affects my "creative impulses" but not creativity itself. The medication also provides stability for my everyday life and gives me an outlet to maintain better control over my creativity. I'm unquestionably happier, more stable, capable, and competent on medication. So why should I biologically or neurologically punish my brain and body when I've been healed in so many ways? How about you? How do you deal with your creativity? Join the discussion in the community.
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If, like me, you have experienced psychosis, then you know it is not easy to talk about it with other people. I’ve done a lot of research on bipolar disorder to understand my condition and learn to manage it, and I’ve found very little information about bipolar psychosis. I’ve had one major psychotic episode, and I know that about 60% of people with bipolar disorder experience psychosis at least once in their lifetime, so I decided to do some research and gather some thoughts about this topic.
Currently, I am not actively psychotic or having an episode. And at this point in my life, I feel I know myself better than I ever have, and I am learning how to make this life work for me. Here are some facts I’ve gathered to help me make sense of this condition. What is bipolar psychosis? It is a distorted or nonexistent connection with reality. A person with psychosis cannot distinguish between the external, objective “real world” and their own subjective perceptions, distorted and characterized by delusions and/or hallucinations. In bipolar psychosis, this loss of contact with reality is usually a feature of the severe mania experienced in Bipolar Type I. However, it can also be associated with bipolar depression, but this is far less common. People with bipolar I can share a broader range of symptoms than those with bipolar II, but both can go through psychosis. It is characterized by grandiose delusions involving exaggerated feelings of power, wealth, sexual attractiveness, luck, or insight. It is also characterized by hallucinations which include hearing, seeing, feeling, smelling, or sensing things that are not really there. There is a great deal of information about bipolar disorder and psychosis on the Black Dog Institute Factsheet and Psychology Notes. > The psychotic episode I had had delusions and hallucinations, and I recount parts of that episode in the earlier posts of this blog. I’m still processing that episode as I am shocked that my mind could lose its footing severely and put me in danger. It’s something I often revisit in therapy. What to do during bipolar psychosis? Here are three things that have helped Pippa L. when experiencing psychosis. #1 Deep breathing Count to ten and let your breathing settle down. Sometimes the correct breathing pattern can be enough to settle or even stop the psychosis. Make sure your breaths are even deep and continue until you feel calm and safe. #2 Safe place You may not be able to prevent psychosis, but you can lessen its effect on you. Get yourself to a safe place, or at the very least, to a quieter place. If you can, grab someone you trust and take them with you, or go alone if that makes you more comfortable. #3 Anchoring objects You can find things around you that you can focus on. Some great apps are available for further help if necessary, but just find something still and focus your attention on that object as much as possible. Psychosis can only affect you to the extent you are concentrating on it. > I found these grounding strategies helpful as I was lost and confused while experiencing my psychosis. Some moments were panic-inducing, so I’m adding them to my toolbox in case this happens again. How to treat bipolar psychosis? You have to treat psychosis with antipsychotics immediately because it can be dangerous to lose touch with reality. People with bipolar disorder who are experiencing psychosis are usually prescribed what are called atypical antipsychotics, or second-generation antipsychotics, according to the NIMH. They work by affecting various neurotransmitters in the brain, including dopamine. Antipsychotics begin to treat some symptoms, like hallucinations, within days, while it may take weeks for delusions to fully recede. The duration of treatment is highly variable, depending on the patient. Some people with bipolar disorder only take antipsychotics when symptoms appear and stop a few weeks or months after they feel normal again. Others may stay on a low dose of antipsychotics for a year before tapering off to prevent another episode. And sometimes, people stay on them indefinitely as a maintenance treatment. Most often, antipsychotics are just one component of the drug regimen used to treat bipolar disorder. > I’ve been on Abilify since October 2018, and my psychiatrist recently told me we will discontinue its use (which was the best news ever as I can’t take the weight gain anymore). The best way to manage psychosis is to prevent as many mood episodes as possible. The longer a person with bipolar disorder can stay stable early in their illness, the better their prognosis in the long term. Achieving that stability usually entails sticking to a treatment plan, including medication and therapy, and avoiding episode triggers like extreme stress, sleep deprivation, and substance abuse. It also involves checking in with a doctor often and adjusting that treatment plan as needed. While I am still processing my psychotic episode, I find that knowing is just half the battle and this information helps me make more sense of what I went through with the hope that work in therapy will allow me to dig deeper and really figure out what went down in that complex mind of mine. I got pregnant.
It was a nonviable pregnancy that needed to be aborted. A few days later, Eli left me while I was still bleeding out our unborn child. He didn’t want to have bipolar babies. The breakup was civil and quick. I packed two suitcases and left on the same day, back to my mom’s. Of course, she was delighted to have me back home. It took me a few days to completely move out. It took me a couple of weeks to understand that it was over and we shouldn’t see each other anymore. It took me a couple of months to fully get over it. I quit smoking up just as abruptly as I quit loving Eli. And just like that, my moods magically started to lift up. Week after week, I got better at managing my moods, reading book after book to better understand my illness, sticking faithfully to the med regimen imposed by my doc, and going systematically to talk therapy. The hard work paid off. I started to feel better on most levels. My heart had mended, though I couldn’t see myself falling in love any time soon. My mind was not foggy anymore; I could now work and think as clearly as day. It was good that we broke up. I never would have adequately healed had we stayed together. His moods would have always brought me down, and his habits would have negated all the benefits of my medical treatment. I am better without him, healthier, happier, and stronger. And so begins my journey toward mental stability. In the next post, I’ll talk more about my story about bipolarity and hopefully start exploring the various topics dear to my heart. The following 24 hours are blurry in my mind.
I know there was a day between my return from Limassol and my visit to the psychiatrist, but I’m not sure what exactly happened that day. I remember visiting mom and having lunch with the girls. I remember my mom being worried that I wasn’t eating enough. I remember playing with my nieces and giving them my pins. I remember alternating between being angry and being sad a lot. I remember smoking and smoking and smoking until I could barely breathe anymore. I remember Eli’s uncle coming by and having the weirdest conversation with me. Eli had told him that I was unwell but couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me, so his uncle came to try to figure it out. They were trying to diagnose me by proxy as his uncle called the family’s psychiatrist to tell him my symptoms. The psychiatrist advised them to take me to the ER, but Eli knew I would disagree and would prefer my family doctor to diagnose me. The next day, Eli took me home, and my brother came by to take me to the hospital and visit our family doctor. I was still as paranoid as fuck, but a wave of sadness had taken over me as I realized how fucked up I was and how inevitable my diagnosis would be. Mental, I was mental; it didn’t matter what kind, I had a mental breakdown. I told the doc what was happening, and he said it delicately: system failure. Let’s see what the countess has to say about it. He wrote me a prescription for an STD panel and sent me to a psychiatrist. I went back home, and Hala was there. Hala is my sister’s best friend. She’s also one of the best psychologists in town and happens to have bipolar disorder. She was one of the most reassuring figures I could hope for. She explained that we were going to go to a psychiatrist and that we were going to find a solution to ease my pain. A couple of hours later, we drove to the psychiatrist. The weather was starting to be bad, and I thought the pouring rain was acid and would burn us the minute we walked out of the car. I was still seeing danger everywhere. I glanced out the window and saw a colossal graffiti that looked like a monster was coming out of the wall to terrify the fuck out of me. We are watching you. Read the caption on the wall. It was just an ad for Adidas, and the writing on the wall was completely different, but I couldn’t see that. The paranoia was not easing up. It didn’t take the psychiatrist long to come up with my diagnosis. Dr. Michael was a kind soul. He asked me questions about what was happening to me, and he explained what was going on in clear words. I was in the middle of a mixed episode with a solid paranoid psychosis. He suggested that I be hospitalized for the treatment, but I told him that it wasn’t necessary and that I could be treated at home surrounded by the love of my family and friends. I’m unsure if I said that or if it was Hala and my brother. I can’t remember exactly what happened. I just remember leaving his office and sitting in his waiting room while my brother collected my prescriptions. I was crying, and Hala was trying to comfort me. We went back home, and my brother went to get my meds. Eli came by, and we explained to him what had happened. Part of my recovery required us to stop smoking to keep me safe. I think every person in the house went up to him to tell him that at some point because he did his best not to smoke or bring up smoking in front of me for the next few weeks. My sister was here, and she’d taken up the task of calling my 4 clients to let them know that I was taking a three weeks break to recover from severe burnout. We decided to order pizza. It was like any other regular night, except I was still going out of my mind. The neighborly dog I’m accustomed to hearing barking felt like a threat. I hadn’t taken my meds yet. After dinner, there was my first dose. 3 or 4 pills. Lithium, depia, lorazepam, I think I remember. I wasn’t yet in control of my treatment. I didn’t know yet what each of these pills would do. I just knew I needed them to get back to normal. It didn’t take long for me to start dozing off after taking my pills. After all, it had been almost a month since I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. Eli tucked me in, and off I went. We walked back home, and Charles did his best to sound comforting and alleviate my anxieties.
He slept soundly while I paced the apartment, my paranoia growing by the minute. I did not rest for a minute. I ran out of cigarettes at some point and waited for daylight to break to buy more. I decided that I wanted to visit the Poseidonia hotel to visit the family of my dad’s wife. I told Charles so and went ahead. We’d agreed to meet later during the day. I started walking and noticed the city was awfully calm and empty for a Monday morning. Joan had mentioned that police were watching citizens for the most minor infractions, so she said to be careful. I’d wait carefully for the pedestrian lights to turn green. I’d make sure to avoid closed-off intersections. I was walking towards the touristic area, which Joan had said was being purged from all the mob business, both Cypriot and Russian. Many Greeks had returned to open businesses, and the new mayor was excellently cleaning up the city. It felt clean and fresh with a different energy. I arrived at Poseidonia and saw a Passat similar to my dad’s that had been next to the Hariri convoy when it exploded in 2004. The Poseidonia felt empty and closed. Something was wrong. I got scared and kept walking. My feet were burning up. I couldn’t wear my shoes anymore. I tossed them. My hands had swollen up, and my fingers were aching. I started removing my rings and throwing them away. I arrived at the Four Seasons, and felt like a safe place. I went in and asked for asylum. Help me, I begged, help me. I am going crazy, my feet hurt, and I can’t breathe, and something is wrong, but I don’t know what. They got the doctor who took my tension, it was low, and I had tachycardia. He said to rest. They got me slippers, and I sat outside. I ordered cigarettes and a frappe and just sat there crying my eyes out. I looked around and felt something was wrong. The hotel was empty, shy of a few people. It felt like a convention, a political convention. I looked around and saw two men talking. They seemed vaguely familiar. I got scared, convinced that I had walked into a hornet's nest, and decided to leave. But how would I go? I could not walk in hotel slippers. I crossed the street and bought flip-flops, then asked Alex to send me the number of her driver. He picked me up and dropped me off by the square where we had dinner last night. I wanted to find Joan and Laura at work, but I needed help remembering the address. I called my brother just because I needed to hear his voice, to feel his calmness, to remember who I was and how I was raised to make the right decisions and avoid danger. Everything around me felt dangerous. I called the driver again and asked him to take me to Joan’s. Charles had said the key would be in the pot near the door. But the key was not there. I ran away, scared, trembling, and panicked. I started walking but did not know where to go. I walked left, then right. Followed the signs that my paranoia was dictating. Greeks are friendly. Russians are a menace. Tattooed men, you may follow. Avoid buses and the sea. Jews are the most dangerous node to avoid. But downtown Limassol is full of them. I reached another square and nearly had a breakdown in front of two Germans. Finally, I found a man I could trust. He was Greek and sold hats. His arms were full of tattoos I could identify with. Please call me a cab; I need to reach the airport. Thankfully, I had everything I needed with me. I left behind a suitcase with some clothes, but it was no big deal. We’d find a way to get it back to me. I just needed to get to the airport on time. To leave the island in time. Before the explosion. I was sure an explosion was going to happen. And I had enough explosions in my life. No more terror. But the only terror around was me. The only thing exploding was me. I was a walking bomb, ready to blow up at any time. And I had to get off the island as fast as possible. Mario, my taxi driver, was kind enough to talk to me during the entire trip to the airport. He helped me make sense of my anxieties even though he did not know me. He was kind and gentle, and compassionate. He drove me fast enough, and I made it in time for my flight. I was going home. I was going to be safe. I asked for medical attention because I felt sick. A Russian-Lebanese stewardess took care of me. The medical doctor said my tension was low and I should eat and rest. I finally turned my phone on and saw it exploding with worried messages from people trying to find me. I answered each one of them as calmly as I could. I told Eli I was unwell and needed medical attention when we’d arrive. Finally, I was on the flight home and still felt unsafe. I thought the plane was full of Jews, and they were coming to infiltrate our country and explode us from the inside. Insanity. I was reaching it. I was there. Finally, the plane landed. I sprinted through customs to Eli and tried to explain. We called a friend who is a doctor. He advised me to sleep and go to the hospital tomorrow. We drove home. I panicked. I was scared. I did not know if I could sleep. Eli helped me out of my clothes and into the shower. My feet were black from walking barefoot in the street. I showered, and we went upstairs. We smoked and talked, and I started to calm down a little. But I could not sleep. I even called Al, my ex-boyfriend who happened to be a psychologist, to France and asked him to help. I could not sleep. I could not use the bathroom. I was scared. I was helpless. I felt threatened. The cleaning products. The food. I needed to purge the house of everything that could harm us. There was a trade war, and we were being poisoned by our consumption and habits. I needed to clean it all out. I needed to be ready to escape at any moment, so I packed a bag with my diary, passport, and critical paper. I needed to be prepared, just in case, we had to flee. In case a war suddenly erupted. I went upstairs and started packing the escape bag. And then I sat down and smoked, and smoked, and smoked until the sun rose, and it was time to go to my mother’s. Eli and I had been dating for three months. We’d known each other for 14 years, and for the last five, he had tried to get me to marry him, and I’d resisted.
I had finally decided that we could make it as a couple, and we’d jumped right into our relationship, taking it almost immediately to the next level when we rented a friend's apartment in a small town outside Beirut. I booked this trip to Cyprus because we both had a stressful summer and needed a break. Unfortunately, he hadn’t gotten his visa, which broke my heart. I felt anxious and unsafe, and he was just about the only person to calm me down. The minute my plane landed in Larnaca, I felt something was off. I had gone crazy again. I was sure it was unsafe outside the airport, and I was convinced that all the taxis were Russian mafia and ready to kidnap me. I was so anxious that I couldn’t withdraw cash from the ATM because I kept inputting the wrong card. I finally managed to text Charles, and he told me he was waiting for me at the hotel and would keep an eye out for the taxi when I arrived. I had no choice but to take the plunge and pick among the terrifying Russian mob figures waiting for customers. The drive felt like hours, although it was just one hour, and it took us a few more minutes to find the hotel as it was new. I was reassured to find Charles standing by the entrance and waiting for me. The minute we got into the room, I took him outside to the balcony and told him something was wrong. I saw things, there was danger everywhere, and I did not feel safe. I had no clue what was happening, and neither did he. But we would figure it out. We were in a safe hotel in a city that only cared about booze and fun. We could have had a great time if we trusted each other. And that I could do. My best friend Alex had decided that this man, her husband, was trustworthy, and that was all I needed to trust him myself. We went to the town square and had a drink while catching up. They had recently moved to Dubai, and Charles was writing a book while looking for a job. Life had not been kind to him, but he consistently impressed me with his upbeat attitude. Back in the hotel, I felt anxious again. The room was overly electronic. The bathroom had a lighting fixture that changed colors as if in a nightclub. The door locked electronically, and all the lighting in the room was managed by a light panel that seemed exceedingly technological. There was an iPad-like device near my bed that I managed to operate and turned into a music device that played classical music. I managed to sleep that night for a few hours. The next day, Charles and I met at this lovely Greek coffee place. It seemed as though the Greeks had managed to come back in droves to Cyprus. Indeed, the hotel I was staying at was managed primarily by Greeks. This only reinforced my love for this town and island. We walked back to the hotel and went up to the pool, waiting for Joan to arrive. I had decided I wanted to enjoy myself; looking over the pool's edge was the magnificent view of the city and the sea extending beyond. It was Captain Morgan's time. I channeled my brother’s joie de vivre and drank Rum and Cokes all day. Joan came with her stories, and we had a grand time catching up and talking about life. I was beyond buzzed by sunset, and anxiety had hit me again. There was a conspiracy happening. Something had happened in Beirut or was about to happen. Something terrible, and I was somehow involved. Next to us, a group of Israeli were having a good time. At some point, one of them went across us and face timed with someone. I felt like they were spying on us, somehow identifying us. That same man turned towards us later, and I thought I heard him say, “I need to whack someone.” This sent me over the roof with anxiety, and I told Charles I didn’t feel safe and wanted them to accompany me to my room. I had asked housekeeping not to make the room, yet when I arrived, they had made it. Charles said maybe they meant to make it to protect you. Or so I thought, he said. By then, I had no idea what was real and what wasn’t. We stopped by his hotel next, trying to make sense of my anxieties and what was going on in my mind. I remember he kept saying maybe consider that it’s not about you. Then why did I feel so scared? What the hell was going on? We had a nice dinner, but I did not feel safe. Something was wrong. The people around us, the cars passing by, and the conversation itself. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t make sense of it. I had read enough books and seen enough movies to make myself paranoid to the extreme. We didn’t go out after dinner. We all needed a rest after the day of partying and the liters of alcohol we’d consumed. Tomorrow we’d go to Limassol and catch up with old friends. Again, I couldn’t sleep. I felt like Grace Kelly was on the verge of suicide by alcohol poisoning and sleep deprivation. Something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. I checked out early from the hotel, and Joan drove us to Limassol. We stopped by her house quickly and then headed to Colombia Beach House. We had a drink with Savvas, whom I was meeting for the first time. We went back to Joan’s for a quick shower and then met with Joan’s boyfriend, his little girl, Omar, and Laura. I was so anxious that I only managed to drink sparkling water, clutching it as hard as I could to the bottle so no one would drug it up. I was feeling light-headed, and we went to have dinner in the square. I was starting to feel much better physically, but my paranoia was not easing up. Something was going on, and I couldn’t figure it out. I could only trust Charles and Joan and hope for the best. Eli had asked Lea to come over because he wanted her to check on me.
I had just returned from working at Mark’s office in Beirut and was frantically typing on my laptop. I was wired, said Mark. So wired that I didn’t couldn’t tell what was real from what I imagined anymore. Screenshot everything he’d told me. Leave a trail of what is happening to figure it out when you’re back to your normal baseline. But what was normal? I had no idea anymore. When she arrived, Lea looked around the house and silently acknowledged that I had gone crazy. The space was as crazy as my thoughts, as mental as my speech as erratic as my behavior. Gently, calmly, and with all her love for me, she cleaned up and tidied up. Meanwhile, I was pacing around between my laptop, her, and Eli, desperately trying to explain to them that we were in the middle of a conspiracy that involved Bose speakers, every secret service agency I could think of, technology in all its forms, and the entirety of the human race. It’s not safe, Lea, I’d whisper to her, convinced that Eli’s uncle had black-bagged the place to spy on us. I could write a book about it, I’d tell her anxiously if only I could figure out what the fuck was going on. Come with me, she said kindly, leading me to the balcony where I insisted we go without our electronic devices. Just look at the stars and remember how insignificant we are, how insignificant this all is. I’d calm down for a minute, my thoughts quieting again as I gazed at the stars under the polluted sky of Mansourieh, hoping and praying that I was coming down from a bad trip. It’s just a bad trip; I’ve just been overworked; I had a bad vacation and didn’t get to sleep much. I’m just tired, oh so tired. You’ll be better tomorrow, my love, she’d reassured me gently. But I wouldn’t. When she’d left, I had tried to go to sleep next to Eli. He’d taken his pills for anxiety and depression and systematically fell asleep immediately. I was tossing and turning, unable to shut my eyes, so I decided to get up and read a book. The first book I found was William Gibson's Pattern Recognition. I’d only read Neuromancer by Gibson and had no idea what this one was about, but its title had spoken to me. Pattern Recognition. I was seeing patterns everywhere and trying to recognize them and understand them. “The future is there... looking back at us. Trying to make sense of the fiction we will have become.” Yup, this was the book I was supposed to read that night. But the font was small and faint, and I couldn’t pronounce words with the light in the bedroom. So I went upstairs and rolled a joint. It must have been the twelfth or thirteenth joint of the day. But who was counting anymore? In this house, with this man, there was no counting. Eli would roll one joint after the next, and I’d imitate him, each of us trying to keep up with the other. But who cared? We were anxious people and would use this as an excuse to smoke more. It would help us manage our stress and anxiety. It would bring us down or up, make us mellow or hyper, and help us work or relax. Any excuse was a good excuse to smoke up. In fact, we never needed a reason to smoke. Gibson’s book had long been left aside when my joint was done. I had turned on Netflix and was binging through whatever show was on. Probably BoJack Horseman. I have no memory of this particular season because I watched it after hours, in the dim light of the playroom/workroom where we’d spend most of our time and that Lea so carefully tried to tidy up. At some point, I fell asleep in front of the TV, only to be woken up a few hours later by the shaded sunlight. In retrospect, I had moments of clarity mixed with moments of what I thought were hyperactivity. After all, I managed to work, and my managers didn’t seem to notice anything wrong with my behavior. So I must have been fine. Eli and I were supposed to travel to Cyprus for a romantic weekend that week. But it seemed like his visa wouldn’t be ready on time. Instead, I suggested to Alex’s husband Charles to join Joan and me for the weekend in Ayia Napa. Charles was an ex-British soldier and trained security expert. He would manage to make me feel safe and would help me make sense of the insanity that was brewing in my mind. Friday morning, Eli took me to the bank because I had to sign some papers for a new credit card. I had managed to max out the one I already had and needed a new one to buy a new laptop for work. While waiting for my turn, a bearded man started screaming on the phone, “I’m not going to shoot, I’m not going to shoot.” In Arabic, that kind of statement sounds even more dramatic, especially when you’re sitting in the lobby of a bank full of people and an economic crisis is looming in the country. Thankfully he did not shoot, at least not while I was there. My credit card application had been sent back to the head office because I came too late to sign it. I got back in the car, and Eli drove me to my mother. During the drive, I was increasingly convinced he was a secret service agent. He was wearing his sunglasses for once and had those magnetic Bluetooth headphones on that he’d adjust every once in a while, making me feel like he was actually on the line with someone. At some point, we saw a truck with Hebrew writing on it. He pointed it out and said jokingly, they’re back for us. Little did I know that this minor insignificant incident would trigger an insane paranoid psychosis in my mind a couple of days later. |
AuthorI was born in 1986 in Lebanon. I'm still trying to find my passion in life and in the meantime I'm learning to navigate my bipolarity and redefining stability. Archives
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