I hate shopping. Loathe it. Grocery shopping. Clothes shopping. Shoe shopping. Practically the only thing left for me is online shopping, and that can be treacherous – and not because I can so easily spend too much money.
Online shopping can push me over into hypomania. So can thinking about online shopping.
Recently, our house was destroyed by a tornado. We lost everything. And we have to replace everything. (Fortunately, our insurance company is paying for most of the lost items, as well as rebuilding the house.)
When I first got the inventory of things that needed replacing, I was too overwhelmed to do much about it. A window-shopping trip to La-Z-Boy left me bereft of spoons, as shopping always does. So I turned to the internet.
Do you have any idea how many companies are willing to sell me chairs, sofas, rugs, computer desks, jewelry armoires, electric fireplaces, and even walking sticks (to mention but a few items)? Lots. Lots and lots. Now I even get messages from many of them on my email and Facebook feed.
I have spent literally hours browsing online. And then I try to sleep. It’s an instant case of “Hamster Brain,” as my friends and I call it. I can’t sleep, even with my prescribed sleep aid and prescribed benzo. My mind starts whirling and my thoughts start racing.
Hypomania takes over. Oh, I don’t run to my computer and start ordering stuff. I’m keeping hands off my PayPal account, for the most part. But I lie in bed, eyes closed, trying to picture every purchase in what will be its new setting. I compare various color schemes for each room in the house, then change them each night – gold, brown, and cinnamon for my study? Blue and green with coral for the living room? And, oh, God, what about the bathrooms and the kitchen? I even arrange the furniture in my head – which wall will the computer desk go against? What will go beside the chairs? Tea cart? End table? Should we have a corner breakfast nook or a proper dinette set?
And how do I explain to my husband what my visions are? I can’t even decide between boho and country comfy. I can’t even define for him what I mean by boho. How do I keep him from sprinkling the house with 50s pieces (now called mid-century)? How can I integrate his treasures without spoiling my visions?
Most nights now I am up until 2:30 at least, which is when I take the benzo. When I wake, though, the hypomania is not over. It’s back to the computer with a new thing to search for, adding item after item to my favorites lists, comparing prices. I spend hours doing this. I email pictures back and forth with my husband as he gets caught up in my frenzy. This afternoon I spent several hours online buying replacements for books that were ruined. Tonight may be another case of no sleep till who-knows-when.
I’d like to stop, or at least slow down. Realistically, I don’t have to do anything now. I certainly don’t have to order or even browse choices. The house will not be rebuilt until at least the spring and we have no place to store any purchases until then. It’s silly to make decisions now, when between now and then thousands more choices will become available.
If I keep going at the pace I’m at now, I will be supremely sleep-deprived by the time I actually need to make purchases. And between now and then I see myself with a copy of the floor plans, making little cut-outs of different-sized furniture and trying them out for size and fit like those sliding puzzles we used to do as kids.
I see my pdoc this weekend and I’m going to ask him what to do about the hypomania and the lack of sleep. I get hypomania so seldom and it usually goes away so quickly. It’s impossible to think about it continuing at this level and going on for months.
Of course, it’s too simple for someone to tell me to calm down, not to think about it until the time comes. This is hypomania. That’s exactly what I can’t do. Once again, my brain is in control and running riot. And it won’t shut up, not even when I really need it to.