I have been medicated now for three weeks. I have a 30 day pill box with the days of the month in permanent marker. This is the longest, by far, that I have ever been compliant with medications as an outpatient.
Four weeks ago, I spiraled out and found myself in the hospital for six days. I wore light blue scrubs and hospital socks and ate when they told me to. I got the first of a series of medication injections because I am non-compliant, and after six days, my dad drove me back home. They called it Bipolar I.
The Bipolar diagnosis is not new. I was diagnosed at 18 after a long series of spirals. I decided some years later I didn’t meet the criteria for Bipolar, stopped taking my meds and stopped sleeping.
The medications are like a powder over my ventricles, dampening the once lightning-fast impulses. It is quieter in my head now, but it is also lonely. I feel calmer, but I don’t feel like myself. When you’ve been sick for a long time, you forget what it’s like to not be sick, to not want to die, to not feel like a diesel truck headed full speed toward a cliff.
Mostly, I miss the creativity that came with being manic. I can’t write like I could, I can’t draw, I can’t paint, I have no desire to sing. The inside of my brain is coated with a soft powder and everything is muted. I miss writing. Now that I am dampened, I guess I don’t have much to write about.
This is a diagnosis and a treatment plan I may never accept, but I’m trying. Maybe I will get used to feeling muted, dampened. Maybe I will get used to having nothing to write about. Maybe that counts for something.
keep breathing 