Hypomania will always be everything mania could never be. Certainly not in the way it's contagiously unrestrained, bright, fast, witty and ready for anything; a brain like a remote control that's had all it's buttons jammed deep into their sockets. And what idiot would dare take them out? But it's because no one knows you're crazy, that's the glory of it. You're simply a very "hyper" person; someone with a lot to say and someone who says it all very loudly. You're excitable, enthusiastic, you simply have a zest for life. Here's the kicker though...it only lasts a few hours at a time. And that, my friends, is why bipolar II is, in reality, the poor man's mood disorder. While the fabulous "Ones" fly high for months, creating, laughing, talking, succeeding, we are never quite manic long enough to accomplish anything and we're far too depressed to succeed in the first place. It's infuriating and no medication treats us properly. Mood stabilizers keep us from swinging out of control, but do not offer anything for the lethal depression that follows and antidepressants trigger a manic episode. We are the ones beneath the covers, desperately planning our suicides, experiencing wonderfully furious moments where we have no doubts we can achieve anything, followed by even longer ones where we silently analyze our thinking with the kind of tragic shame that would send anyone off their handle. "How could I have ever thought I could do this? Who am I to dream so big, to take up so much space that would otherwise be filled with the real, the capable, the...not me."
So here I am, writing as quickly as possible out of fear of losing this moment; of it running out. The funny thing is, we can drive as fast as we want on an empty tank, but it's always the distance that gets us, not the time it takes to cover it. In the end I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere, feet frantically pumping the gas with nothing moving but my own head as it bobs up and down, peeking through the rear view mirror and wondering where the hell I just came from and how far I actually went. And what a disappointment it is! I have no grand story to tell of what my episode was and all the places it brought me and everything I did on the journey because it turns out I'm three god dam blocks from my house! So as a dreaded "Two," time runs out far too quickly. One minute I'm reading Rousseau and studying the French Indian War and the next minute I'm binge watching Orange is the New Black with the debris of my hypomanic episode wriggling out of my toes and my fingers like a dying fish. And what has anyone ever accomplished with a fiddling thumb? Nothing.
But none of it's real to begin with, right? This isn't me, this is a mental illness. I am not brilliant, creative or driven because I'm a "Two." And Twos are tired and desperate for change, but too self-deprecating to follow through. Twos take up space and are over medicated, resulting in bad memories, poor concentration and a lack of sex drive. Sit down. Be gentle with yourself. Be grateful for the dog on your lap and a movie going, this is what you need. You have a fragile system. Oh face it! I am BOOOOOORRRRING! This is what I've chosen to do about it. I've gone off my meds, started doing acupuncture and decided to see an herbalist. I am brilliant, creative and driven. I have to be. So I go to bed, sleep like a baby and wait for noon the next day to finally arrive, because, like clock work, hypomania will be back, and I'll take the wheel again, And I'll drive at 90 mph through my little neighborhood for a raving hour, if I'm lucky, two, until I run out of fuel then start all over again the next day. 4:35pm. I cross my fingers for a second wind, because today was not enough. One fight with Hunter. One page of my book. One blog post. One recurring fantasy. Son of a bitch, how is it that everything in my life is a One but me.
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