Bipolar Me

It wasn’t supposed to be journaling. I thought I was writing a blog post to be called “On Happiness.” It was about the fact that, even though my bipolar disorder is well controlled, something was sucking the joy out of what should have been joyful times—our dream trip to Ireland, for example, or the fact that I just got a work assignment after a long drought. Not even a mid-winter trip to Florida lifted my spirits.

It didn’t feel like depression, though. That’s a creature I know well, and this wasn’t it. Oh, the lack of joy was the same, but there were no unexplained fits of crying or immobility. In fact, I was experiencing a flurry of activity getting ready for the Florida trip. Putting money away from every paycheck. Making sure we had enough meds for the week. Arranging boarding for the cat. Downloading directions to Google Maps. Checking the flight reservations at least twice a week. Planning what goes in the carry-ons. Juicing up my e-readers and my laptop so I could work on my new assignment and my blogs while we were away.

No, this wasn’t depression.

What it was, was anxiety. Where was this coming from?

Suddenly, I remembered. I had gotten a copy of my file when Dr. Ramirez had to prepare it for my disability application (which failed, of course). On it I read, bipolar disorder, type II, which was expected. But it also said anxiety disorder. And I forgot about that.

All these years, I’ve been concentrating on the bipolar diagnosis—keeping my moods level through a combination of meds and therapy, readjusting levels and times as needed.

But I had been ignoring my anxiety. I was taking one small dose of an anti-anxiety med, with permission to take an extra one as needed. Mostly, I just took the one at night to help me sleep. Unless I was under severe, immediate stress, I ignored the ability to take a second one. That only happened in Ireland, when we were driving on the unfamiliar side of unfamiliar roads with the first roundabouts I had ever encountered. After that, it was back to one a day at bedtime.

But then, as I was trying to write my blog post about how bad I was feeling, it occurred to me (duh) that what I was feeling was not depression, but massive anxiety. All my planning for the trip, all my worrying about our budgets and my work, were clear signs of it, even if I had somehow missed them.

By now, everything for the trip is planned, a few days early even, and my blogs are prepared to post while I’m away. I could relax. But you know I won’t, and I know it, too.

What I will do, though, is to start taking that extra anti-anxiety pill as part of my morning regimen. Unloading some of the remaining tasks like packing on my husband. And trying to distract myself by losing myself in a book.

And, of course, remembering all this for when we return and I have another appointment with my psychiatrist. Who knows? Maybe the twice-a-day pill regimen will have made a difference by then. And if it hasn’t, we can discuss it and see what else might help. (I know, I know. Breathing. Meditation. Mindfulness. Exercise. All of which are difficult for me to practice regularly. I haven’t been able to turn them into consistent habits.)

My husband helps me with my moods. I check with him when I start feeling manicky. He gives me loving attention when I start sliding into depression. He has proven that he can recognize extreme anxiety in certain unusual situations and recommend that I take that second anti-anxiety pill. What I plan to do, at least until my next med check, is not wait for that extreme anxiety to hit and work the second pill into my routine to see if it helps. And ask Dan for help in remembering to do that.