Crossposted from MY LEFT WING

One of the more perplexing and deceptive aspects of being bi-polar is the “manic” part of what used to be (and, in my not so fucking humble opinion, still should be) called “manic-depression.”

In other words, a manic-depressive is often unaware that she is experiencing a relapse in her “condition”…

(disease? Do I really have to call it a disease? Or even a “disorder?” Don’t I have ENOUGH diseases and disorders, what with the alcoholism and fibromyalgia and obsessive-compulsive disorder and body-dysmorphic disorder… attention-deficit disorder and… and… Fuuuuck.)


… until the “manic” phase ends and she begins an often precipitous drop into the depressive phase.

What I’m trying to say, here, is that until this morning, I didn’t realise that the new medication to which my new doctor had me switch is not only not working, it is exacerbating my condition.

How, you may ask, did I “suddenly” become aware of the fact that I am in full-on depression mode, coming off a manic streak?

I looked in the mirror.

Not clear enough for you? I bet there are a few Medical Doctors and Manic Depressives out there who know exactly what I saw when I looked in the mirror this morning:

I’ve been picking.

And wasn’t even aware of it, as noted, till this morning, when I chanced upon my reflection and reeled back in horror; I look like a cross between a leper and a meth addict.

Took me the better part of this late morning to call that doc and demand to be put back on Zoloft. Cymbalta may be a miracle cure for some, but for me, apparently, it is Black Fucking Death.

And, of course, once I realised what’s been happening, a LOT of other shit started to make sense. Like, why haven’t I been at ALL productive, writing-wise, since late fucking JULY? Why have a few admittedly horrible but NOT end-of-the-world personal crises sent me into spasm of sobfests? Why have I been spending money like.. well, like I HAVE it? Yes — plastic is evil evil evil.

(My darling husband, I hope to christ you don’t read this — I hope like hell I just return our financial state to normal before you realise what’s been happening, because I just cannot face you with this wretched fact: aparently, now, when I am manic, I… SHOP. I am sorry, but that is the grotesquely ugly truth. And I don’t even shop for good stuff. I just spend hundreds of dollars on drugstore bric-a-brac and department store handbags. And shoes. Shoes I cannot fucking WEAR, you understand? I am a virtual CRIPPLE — I cannot WEAR my lovely leopard-print platform pumps…)

The doc wants to see me tomorrow morning before he agrees to put me back on Zoloft, so I’ve decided to compose a list of my symptoms — symptoms, I might add, that are a crystal fucking clear today, but were absolutely beyond my perception for the past 6-8 weeks…

Sleepwalking, during which episodes I may do any or all of the following:

  — Binge-eating while asleep… wandering around the house, out to the garage… standing in one place for as long as it takes for Adam to find me and bring me back to bed…

Sugar binging:

– Very common symptom for me when relapsing. I buy tons of candy under the pretense of doing it for “Halloween” or Terry or even for Adam. Of course, I then proceed to HIDE IT UNDER THE BED and eat it in handsful at various periods. This happens during the manic and depressive periods

Symptoms of periodic manic episodes include:

  • Excessive exercise
  • Compulsive spending
  • LOTS of “productivity,” or what I perceive as productivity:

      — laundry is always done, down to a tiny load with 6 or seven items… dishes, same thing… food shopping… dinner and lunch dishes prepared days in advance… bills paid weeks in advance…

Symptoms of depressive episodes (which, by the way, NEVER swing back to manic — once I fall into a depression, that’s it, until I get help):

– Suicidal ideation
  — for the layperson, this means WISHING I could commit suicide, THINKING about it a lot, wishing I were dead — but NOT planning it, NOT considering it as an option.

– Constant crying
  — regardless of the severity or triviality of the trigger, I cry at the drop of a hat when in a depression, and almost always out of proportion to the trigger, though it’s virtually impossible for me to perceive that.

– Withdrawal from life

  — I get sick more easily, which provides me with a “convenient” excuse to beg off social engagements and other appointments

     — Like yesterday:  the illness was real, but it JUST so happened that I had two appointments and a late lunch, all of which, of course, I had to cancel, because I was throwing up and sweating and the like. Oddly, so was my son, and HIS illness preceded mine. Don’t ask me to figure out the causality, I simply can’t.

-Unwillingness to make new appointments or social engagements

 — refusal of any but the most urgent obligations, like picking up son from school…

Refusal of telephone calls

  — Which is why you should always leave a message — if it’s truly urgent, I will call back. If it’s a CHATTY call, forget about it.

So, there it is: if any of you have been wondering where the FUCK I have BEEN for the past couple of months, that’s it. Bet no one at my dinner party last week could have guessed it, eh? (was it last week? Two weeks? I can’t keep track of time without a fucking calendar)

That’s one of the things about the MANIC phases, you know. Very few people can tell the difference between a bipolar person when she’s HAPPY and that same person when she’s MANIC. Only my husband has an INKLING when I’m in that state — and I’m AWFULLY damned good at convincing even HIM that I’m just being, you know, highly productive.

EXCEPT… my “productivity” just so happens to NOT include any ACTUAL production — you know, WRITING and suchlike…

Still, maybe a really clean living space isn’t exactly enough of a reason to stay massively fucked up, eh? So. Maybe after tomorrow, when I REFUSE to take the Cymbalta any longer and DEMAND to be put back on Zoloft, and the requisite three weeks of getting back onto my Zoloft Normality Track…

By the way… anyone wondering why the FUCK I allowed myself to be taken of a drug that has so CONSISTENTLY worked well for me?

Anyone wondering, further, why the FUCK this doctor took me OFF the fucking PROVEN drug, and ON an unproven one (unproven, insofar as it was unproven on ME — might do wonders for other bipolar people; as usual, I ONLY speak for myself as concerns drugs and depression and so on…)?

I don’t want to ascribe to this guy any nefarious motive, but the fact is, Zoloft JUST went into generic status, and Cymbalta won’t be for, what, two more years?

Coincidence? I hope the fuck NOT, but still… I hope to fucking hell this man has no connection to the makers of Cymbalta or Zoloft.

(In case you wondered, as I did, they are not made by the same companies. So it’s definitely not, thank god, a case of Pfizer looking to cash in on a new drug (Cymbalta, in this circumstance, which is made by Lilly) as soon as their stranglehold on the former ran out and it became available in generic form.)

Anyway, the doctor’s declared reason for putting me on Cymbalta was that it is showing good results with fibromyalgia patients, as far as pain goes. Hard to argue with that, especially when your pain has relapsed, as mine had when I first went to see this dude.

But as far as I’m concerned, I am no longer interested in being prescribed drugs for off-label reasons. Period. Talk to me when it’s a DECLARED treatment for fibromyalgia. I don’t want to be a goddamned guinea pig anymore.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah — so, back on Zoloft as of tomorrow<S>, hopefully</S&gt. Fuck that “hopefully” noise — if he refuses, I’ll find another doctor.

Whereupon, given the usual three weeks adjustment, I hope I can report back to you all in the form of consistent posts having to do with POLITICS and not my goddamned psychological and physical states.