Manic depression, also known as bipolar disorder, is defined by the National Institute of Mental Health as "a brain disorder that causes unusual shifts in mood, energy, activity levels, and the ability to carry out day-to-day tasks." This definition is unbearably euphemistic and was clearly written by someone who has never experienced the disorder in question, firsthand or otherwise. That's not to say that it isn't accurate! I would certainly say that I experience shifts in mood, energy and activity levels, but they're no longer very unusual. Not to me. If anything, they've become terribly predictable.
You want to know what bipolar disorder is like? It's like this:
Bipolar disorder is like being on a silly little boat in a big angry body of water. Only you stay in the troughs of the waves for weeks or days, not just a few seconds. You don't stay on the crests for so long, but it's still usually a matter of days. The few days on top of the wave are always fantastic. They are called manic episodes. During my manic episodes, I have huge amounts of energy and I eat little; I'm outgoing and friendly; I'm impulsive, confident and I wear short skirts. The troughs, on the other hand, are miserable. I'm fatigued, withdrawn and despondent; I eat too much, and I lose interest in everything I ordinarily enjoy. I just want to sleep. These troughs are referred to as depressive episodes.
However, these aren't the worst. Not even close. The worst bit is that little bit in between, when I'm at the crest of the wave and I start to feel myself falling back into the valley at the bottom. It only lasts a matter of hours, a day at the most. That is all I would be able to take. It's like this:
I've got all the energy and impulsiveness of mania and all the self-loathing and misery of depression. This is dangerous, I've been told. This is when people attempt suicide, apparently. Not that I'd know anything about suicide attempts. I'm told these periods are called mixed states. Clever.
Today is a mixed state day. I'm terribly disappointed in my brain chemistry right now. I wanted a few more days of mania. Of crest, if you will. It's like being high. I need that high. It's the thought of those highs that keeps me going the rest of the time. If you've ever done cocaine, I think you'll know what I'm talking about.
During my manic episodes, everything I do is something I want to do. Even driving over the hill to Santa Clarita for class is a good thing. I enjoy everything, and it's fantastic. When I'm depressed, I only do anything I do because I know it's something I ought to do. Except the crying, I do that because I can't help it. Aside from the few moments of intense hopelessness and despondency, I'm like a zombie. Only instead of brains, I just want sleep. So now, it's like this:
I know that I have at least a week of zombiedom to look forward to before I can get my high again. I'll do stupid things to try to get my mania back, like listen to painfully upbeat music incredibly loudly or do the twist to "You Never Can Tell" in front of my mirror for an hour straight. I don't think it helps, but I'll keep doing it anyway. Just as long as I know I'll get my high back, I'll keep going, and I'll keep pretending to be happy in front of my family; they don't need to know, after all.
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