I don’t remember everything that happened during my recovery.
Surprisingly, I know from my WhatsApp history that I didn’t ignore everyone texting me. In the past, when I’d have a mental breakdown, I’d shut myself out from society and turn my phone to silent. This time though, this time I had a diagnosis. Bipolar disorder. I knew what was wrong, and there was a kind soul who had the necessary medical knowledge to heal me. Lithium, depia, lorazepam. Eventually, I’d open up the boxes of those pills and read the medical literature that’s included to understand what those pills are and what side effects to expect. My friend Celine, an ex-nurse studying to earn her Ph.D. in some advanced medical field, would explain what each med did and how I’d react to them. I would also research my condition online and read up on it. For the first three weeks after my diagnosis, I still felt manic. I’d later learn that some of the symptoms I was experiencing were side effects from my meds. I had a strong tremor that would incapacitate me at times. I felt a strong urge to constantly move around. So I’d go on long walks. Raphael was in town for a while and had enough free time to spend with me wandering around the city. We’d go to a neighborhood and explore its shops or just aimlessly walk around until we were tired and found a coffee shop to spend some time in. But we mostly sat on my mother’s balcony and talked for hours. His stories from his recent travels would fascinate me, and I’d listen intently while fidgeting with my hands and feet to calm my tremors. I desperately wanted to look normal and be normal. I wanted my treatment to work. Eventually, Dr. Michael told me that Depia, an antipsychotic, might be causing this side effect, and he decided to switch me to Abilify and added Prometal to my regimen. He explained that those meds were working on my brain chemistry to help avoid another manic episode and that, eventually, he’d wean me off of them, and I’d only have to take Lithium. Nevertheless, he was pretty happy with my progress and felt hopeful that my recovery was going well. I felt lucky. I’d heard stories of manic patients being hospitalized and restrained, and I felt damn fortunate that I hadn’t been. I was convinced that I would get better if I just stuck to the treatment. During those three weeks, I wasn’t allowed to work or drive. Dr. Michael wanted me to avoid any kind of stress. I lived at my mother’s for the first week, but then I decided it was time to go back home to Eli and spent my time taking cabs up and down. It didn’t take me long to start smoking again. Eli hadn’t quit, and it’s nearly impossible to avoid smoking when you have your partner in your face smoking up all the time. I wanted to write every day. I wanted to record everything that was happening to remember and avoid making the same mistakes. But there is a muted period. From the day I was diagnosed until well into the fall, I stopped writing in my journals. I don’t know if I was giving myself excuses, adjusting to the new meds, to a new binary reality in a constant quest for balance, but I was excessively relaxed, and it started to frustrate me. I wanted to return to my beast mode. I didn’t want to be manic, but I just wanted the drive and energy that fills me when I’m hypomanic without the obvious mental symptoms. I wanted to grab life by the balls and start making money again to afford the expensive lifestyle Eli, and I devised for ourselves. As I wrote in one of the rare journal entries, I wanted to whip my bipolar demons into submission and show them who’s boss. But I was slow and tired and lacked the energy to do more than a couple hours of work daily. I was also wondering, where was that book I wanted to write when I was manic? Was it an epic tale of family, lust, and love, or was I working on a new economics theory? And why wasn’t I writing anymore? By December, I had to admit to my psychiatrist that I was depressed. As expected, he added a new med to my regimen, Deanxit, not precisely an antidepressant, as recent studies have shown that they can trigger mania. I’m not all there. Parts and bits of me are missing, and I’m just trying to patiently get back to myself.
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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
February 2024
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