Wrecked and Wrecked Again

an essay about mental illness and social media

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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.

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