Wrecked and Wrecked Again
an essay about mental illness and social media
On social media, I saw a person who describes themselves as “autistic, undiagnosed.” I think that’s another way of saying “autistic, self-diagnosed.” And I think it’s another way of saying “I want to be autistic.”
But why would anybody want to be autistic? Why would anybody want to suffer with a psychiatric and/or neurological disorder? The desire to suffer seems like a mental disorder on its own. But I don’t think the self-diagnosed want to suffer; I think it’s more accurate to say they only want to suffer enough for their suffering to be attractive.
But mental illness is ugly. It’s debilitating and demoralizing. As many of my readers know, I suffer from bipolar disorder and the resultant manic and depressive symptoms include irrationality, paranoia, hallucinations, suicidal ideation, self-harm, and impulsive risk-taking when it comes to money, sex, drugs, alcohol, food, and other behaviors.
I don’t want to be bipolar. I want it to disappear. I want to wake one morning and suddenly realize that my brain has been freed. I don’t romanticize my mental illness. It doesn’t make me a better writer. It certainly doesn’t make me a better person. Instead, it has compromised my decision-making ability, often severely so, and has caused me great pain for decades. I’ve hurt family and friends. I’ve twice wrecked my life.
These last three weeks, I’ve only been sleeping for two to four hours a night. I’ve neglected my personal hygiene. I’ve isolated myself in the dark. I haven’t been exercising. And I’ve been overeating on some days and not eating enough on others. I’m weepy. I’m disheveled.
And, yes, I’ve been writing. When it comes to reading and writing, I’m sometimes a high-functioning manic-depressive. When it comes to stepping onstage, when it comes to being a professional writer in a public forum, my manias and depressions can often seem compelling.
Hey, look at the poet weeping in the lecture hall. He’s an artist. Hahahahahahaha!
So, as you read this, you’ll note that I’m aware of this maladaptive behavior but that self-awareness doesn’t make it any easier for me to make healthy decisions.
Sometimes, it feels like my brain is broken into two lions and I’m the lion tamer armed only with pen and paper.
But, over the last five years, I’ve learned tools to help me deal with all this shit. One of those tools is called Opposite Action. I must consciously choose to act in positive ways despite what negative things my bipolar brain wants me to do.
So, last Friday morning, I forced myself out of bed. I showered and shaved. I put on fresh clothes. I ate a healthy breakfast. Then I went to the gym to exercise. Afterward, I ran errands with my wife and son.
Just an ordinary day, right? Yes, but it took enormous effort for me to be ordinary.
Then, on Friday night, I again struggled with dark and intrusive thoughts. My wife and I sleep apart because of my bouts of insomnia and frequent nightmares. So I was alone in bed and my bed wasn’t made. I’d laundered my sheets and pillowcases but they lay on the bare mattress while the blankets and pillows were piled on the floor.
And so I said to myself, Make your bed, Sherman. Make your bed, Sherman. Make your bed, Sherman.
But I didn’t do it. Instead, as has happened so many times in my life, I laid my head on bare pillows, rolled myself into the sheets—into a bipolar cocoon—and hoped that I would sleep.
And the God of Slumber gifted me seven hours. I woke at 7:30 on Saturday morning. Wrote a few lines of poetry while still in bed. Walked upstairs for breakfast. I felt rested.
Then I made my bed. And I felt proud about that. I was proud to make my bed. That feels both tender and pathetic. I know that I’m not supposed to call myself crazy. But I am crazy. Not as crazy as some. More crazy than others.
And I would sacrifice all my future poems and stories to rid my brain of bipolar disorder. No, that’s not true. I would only sacrifice half of them.
Never thought of suffering as being 'attractive'. But then, there is the starving artist, and so many more starving without creation of any sort of art. So sorry to hear that the mid winter has been a rough patch for you. More light daily now, but, is that a good thing? I love the dark deep insides of wintertime. But I never know what part of me will jump up and say, 'Hello, fool'. Very glad to know that you have found the OPPOSITE ACTION tool helpful (at least for that particular day). Re: the clever little twist at the end of this piece, elicits from me only a quiet perhaps shallow and not full, 'ha ha'.
I saw a very effecting/affecting Ryan Reynold's movie last night called, The Voices. The main character talks to his dog and cat and yes, they talk back (all voices by Ryan Reynolds) with the cat being very negative, as cats can be. Also turns out that the main character killed his mother because she begged him to; and the character most likely suffers from schizophrenia and is not a bipolar . I really liked this movie and after looking more into it, learned that it cost 11 million and only grossed 4 million; yes to offbeat movies and people. I really felt for this character even though he actually kills a number of folks and dies at the end...Quite a movie. And what's my point(?), just 'voices'. We all hear them; perhaps in our own very different ways. I hope that you have a very very good day today until and beyond sunset, or a good night beyond sunrise. Sleeping perchance to dream. I was/am a lucid dreamer only realized when I wrote my poem, 'Tornados', in which I see over and over a tornado coming and try to warn my parents but I am the only one who sees it, and one night having this dream as a kid, realized I had been there before many times, and as the tornado neared, I touched it causing a whoosh of sparks and light to pour over me. I rarely dreamed about tornados ever again. A silent voice was in those dreams.
I was recently given a small book titled
I was recently given a very small book titled "A common prayer" by the Australian cartoonist Michael Leunig. One of the prayers begins, "There are only two feelings. Love and fear."
The last two sentences of your wrenching essay...."I would sacrifice all my future poems and stories to rid my brain of bipolar disorder. No, that's not true. I would sacrifice only half of them."
Cheeky. May you always hold that quality of not succumbing to fear!!!