White Knuckling

I took the video posted below, in 2019. Emotionally exhausted, in the middle of one the worst depressive episodes I had, had in years. It took a full year from that day, for me to finally say, “Enough is enough” and schedule an appointment with a psychiatrist. I was then promptly diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder. The II in Bipolar II means I am not likely to have a complete psychotic break. I’ll probably never hop a plane to Vegas in the middle of the night and gamble our life savings away while doing lines of coke off a stripper’s chest. Thank goodness for Little Victories.

Instead of full mania, Bipolar II typically has hypomanic episodes. Hypomania is a constantly racing mind, jumping from one erratic thought, to another, to another, all.day.long. It’s making 80 mile long to-do lists and doing them in a frenzy, unable to stop. Cleaning my basement for 15 hours straight, or suddenly stopping my afternoon to take apart the dishwasher in an attempt to fix it, as if I am an appliance repair person (spoiler alert, I am not, and it is still broken). Hypomania is coming up with and obsessing over business plans, book ideas, renovation designs and making lists, even lists of lists I need to make. Hypomania looks like going shopping for a special occasion, and coming home with a whole new wardrobe. It makes me painfully awkward in social settings, talking over people incessantly, oversharing and butting into conversations. It is severe paranoia that literally every person hates me, my husband is cheating on me, and what if someone is sexually abusing my children? But if I can just look pretty, and keep my house on point, be a present and attentive mother, help anyone who needs me, get in enough time at the office, put dinner on the table, have enough sex with my husband, and don’t forget self care! *Then* everything might be ok…but probably not because I said that stupid thing to so-and-so at Target, and now she definitely thinks I’m the worst.

Bipolar II is all of that, followed by the inevitable crash. Landing sobbing on my bathroom floor, for hours a day, with no tangible reason. Sure that I am the worst person, and everyone hates me and knows I’m crazy. Convinced that I am a burden and most likely every emotional hurt or trauma I have experienced, was either my own fault or imagined, because a brain like mine can’t be trusted. The only thing getting me out of bed is my mountain of guilt and shame. I must be a good wife and an even better mother. I.must.be.good. I can’t let people see. The show must go on. Until it can’t.

One of the ways I was able to remain functional for so long, was through my many years of obsessive yoga practice and healthy lifestyle. Obviously lifestyle changes are prescribed for most ailments, physical or mental. But even at my best I would struggle with mood swings and maintaining consistency. When I felt good, I was still white knuckling through life, trying to keep a grip. I would have depressive episodes that would sneak in like fog, but I could hide the worst parts of them, alone on my bathroom floor, or in the car. Then suddenly I’d come out of it with renewed hope, optimism and energy, into a flurry of productivity and celebration of my beautiful life, and that was the face people saw.

I had occasionally made posts on social media about my various mental states, but always with just enough humor, hope and positivity to seem like just another person fluctuating through the storms of life. The recent normalization of mental illness was confusing too. Did I really need help and medication or was I just like everyone else, experiencing the highs and lows of a full and busy life? Perhaps I was just burnt out. Adrenal fatigue? I’ve heard that’s a thing.

After I suffered a host of injuries, due to hypermobility, it became impossible for me to practice yoga. As my body slowly unraveled, so did my mind. When I lost that cornerstone habit, staying consistently functional became more and more difficult. The depressive episodes became more frequent and severe and my hypomanias became deeply paranoid.

Years before, when I sought help from my family physician, I was diagnosed with anxiety/depression and treated with ineffective SSRI medications. I understand now, that it wasn’t my fault things didn’t improve. They were the entirely wrong medications, often making things worse instead of better. After that I was told maybe PMDD (Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder) “Lady” problems and our parts can be blamed for basically every affliction. This is why functional women take so long to properly diagnose. I remember Googling about Bipolar, but I never read deep enough into it to understand the difference between the types and the different ways the moods can cycle. A good example of how Google and WebMD, and even family physicians, are not replacements for psychiatrists.

What I’ve learned from all this, is that spending years of my life, suffering in silence, beating myself up for not being able to pull it together, feeling like to be mentally ill equated being ungrateful for my beautiful life – it was all a waste of time that I’ll never get back. Mental illness doesn’t care how great your life is. It doesn’t care how supportive your spouse is, or how much you love your children. It doesn’t care how productive you are and if your house is on point. If it is in your wiring, it will come for you.

The very worst part of it is, there is nothing I can do to permanently fix it. As a solutions focussed person, problems are to be solved, not endured. But even though it will never go away, at least now I know. Knowing lets me be gentle with myself and realize it’s not my fault I can’t always pull it together. I have faulty wiring. This isn’t something I can control with perfectionism and to-do lists. I’m not perfect, and sometimes I can’t do the damn list. What this means is I need help, medication, and a ton of resilience; which luckily, I have plenty of. I have created a beautiful life, essentially with one arm tied behind my back!

Tools and resources won’t make it go away. Things will never be perfect, but I am proud to say, with medication and therapy, I have stayed off the bathroom floor for 2 years. Getting help has allowed me to ease my grip and stop white knuckling through life.