the polar express

I haven’t slept well in a few days. I’ve tossed and turned and woken up from a very light sleep nearly every hour, on the hour. I am very, very tired. I have a quick fuse with everything and everyone. I am so frustrated I could cry (and do).

This happens fairly often, nearly like clock work, though I’ve yet to determine just what exactly triggers it or what specific catalyst the cycle operates itself around. Every 4-6 weeks, give or take, I’ll experience a week or so of terribly unsettled sleep— for what feels like no reason at all— and then, like magic, fall right back in line and sleep normally. This never happened to me before I began medicinal treatment after being diagnosed with bipolar II.

Thought tempting, I won’t feel sorry for myself because I know the mere fact that I am able to receive treatment, have the means to pay for prescriptions and doctor’s visits and therapy is a privilege not everyone is afforded which is, in and of itself, a bullshit and inhumane story for another day. However, one thing I know for certain is that pain and suffering is subjective to a myriad of factors and, no matter the degree, to struggle with one’ own suffering is a legitimate human experience. And, the fact is, I am suffering.

When I began treatment for my mental illness nearly seven months ago, I made the mistake of assuming that it would be as easy as taking a pill. I thought I would approach this particular bump in the road just as I had approached my experience with postpartum depression. I would simply fix it. I would literally take the pill and feel like myself again, albeit a more emotionally and mentally stable version. What will come as a shock to approximately no one, it wasn’t that simple and here I am, all these months later, still attempting and failing and attempting again to fix what feels like a very broken self.

I’ve often relegated myself to dismissal of any struggles I’ve experienced post-diagnosis by many a well-meaning reminders that it could always be worse; I could be depressed. I could feel so empty and low again that I’d convinced myself that I was a burden on my family and friends and anyone who was emotionally invested in my wellbeing. I could be waking up every single morning feeling a never-ending existential dread, only making it out of the bed thanks to sheer willpower and the prospective shame I’d feel if I indulged my desire to stay in bed and sleep all day.

It could be worse was often uttered like a mission statement, a way for me to accept the unfortunate side-effects of taking the pill I had previously convinced myself would fix me. I’ve never considered myself a particularly vain person but the fifteen pounds I gained in a month made self-love harder than normal. I’ve always accepted that I am beautifully human and possess inherent flaws but when none of my clothes fit, I rejected the idea that losing control of my body would be added to the list of things wrong with me. So, I bought new clothes. (Privilege, I know.)

Once I finally began feeling more comfortable in my newfound fluffy body, the insomnia began and, as many of you know all to well, not sleeping is its’ own form of hell. And, in an effort to continue fixing myself, I started taking another pill to combat the insomnia. Its’ success rate hovers around 45%. But, just as I’ve done three times prior during the newborn chapters of motherhood, I adapted and managed. I accepted that I’d always be tired for one reason or another. I told myself that I’d dealt with worse— that it could always be worse.

And I was right. It absolutely could.

About two months ago, I started experiencing short term memory loss. Initially, I brushed it off as a result of being exhausted from not sleeping. It hadn’t occurred to me that the magic pill I was taking to fix my life was likely the culprit of making it difficult to remember my life. Then I had surgery— my fourth in seven years— which did not go well ( yet another story for another day). I told myself that not being able to remember what I read in a book or the tv show I watched before I fell asleep the night prior was being exacerbated by the general anesthesia. Maybe, just maybe, my body was still adjusting to this new normal? Then, yesterday morning, I couldn’t remember when Marlo came into my room Monday night when she couldn’t fall asleep and cuddled me for an hour. I couldn’t remember the conversation she and I had or her going back up to her room. Joe, who is nearly always calm and collected, looked at me, concerned and slightly skeptical since I can always recall the most minute details of things that occurred twelve years ago— like what I was wearing when we had a fight at such and such bar and what the fight was about and exactly what he said and when he said it. (The irony is not lost on me.)

Which is precisely when the dam broke.

I excused myself, quickly escaping into safety of my bathroom, and proceeded to ugly cry and physically shake for fifteen minutes.

I can handle having a larger ass and chubbier cheeks. I can manage being tired. What I can not handle is losing the memories of the fleeting and insignificant moments with my family— the fleeting and insignificant daily experiences which will no doubt one day in the future be remembered as anything but insignificant.

I can buy a new pair of jeans or a new dress. I can drink more coffee and squeeze in a nap or two. What I can not get back is time and time with my kids and husband isn’t something I feel I’m willing to sacrifice.

Which brings me to where I am now. With a bigger ass, chronically tired, heartbroken, and wondering when is it okay to declare that the pros no longer outweighs the cons? Could it be worse? Sure. But do I really want to know what’s next? Do I want to continue taking the pills that have seemingly have created more problems than the ones the pill was intended to fix in the first place? Is having to work substantially harder to feel stable— not to be confused with happy or positive— a better option than what I’m dealing with now?

What’s worse— losing your mind or losing time?

I’m not sure.

What I am sure of is that the Polar Express I appear to be riding doesn't shift course as easily as I thought it would. It’s not as simple as popping a pill and praying to the Big Pharma Gods that they fix whatever is broken in me. My destination remains unknown and the journey has proven to be just as nuanced and complicated and messy as the diagnosis itself.

What’s that thing that they say? It’s about the journey, not the destination? Some days, I’d like to call bullshit on that because some days, the journey simply fucking sucks. But, thanks to my tenacious grit and inherent optimism, I will continue to believe that the destination will prove worth all of the work I’ve put in in order to get there— wherever there is.

one good thing

I’ve had a string of fairly bad days lately.

Whether they’re an awkwardly shaped piece of my bi-polar puzzle or merely a situational response to the daily bombardment of shitty news upon more shitty news, I’m not entirely sure. At this point, I’m not so much concerned with whether the chicken or the egg came first as I am with merely surviving the bad day regardless of whatever triggered it.

It’s been five months since I was diagnosed with bi-polar II. And, in many ways, my diagnosis has provided a clarity and cathartic rush of relief I didn’t know I needed while, in others, it’s fueled a dread-like sense of anxiety that has woven itself into every facet of my day-to-day life. Accepting the permanence and the indefinite amount of work required of me to live a moderately happy, mostly relapse-free life has not been easy. Hearing the words “Christy, you’re Bi-Polar and is incurable, only managed” felt like an ego bruise on a good day and a life sentence as a day shrouded in darkness. Surrendering to this new reality has not been a flip of a switch, rather it’s been a fluctuating spectrum whose parameters range from full-blown denial to poisonous resentment to palpable anger to mourn-filled sadness.

Depending on the day, it can feel as though I’m existing in purgatory, a level within the game of life that is very strictly governed by the confines of my illness. I’m reasonable enough to understand that it takes time to adjust to this new normal and, as such, finding the right cocktail of medications and lifestyle changes doesn’t happen without adjustment and trial and (mostly) error. But, for fuck’s sake, it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting for every decision I make— decisions I once possessed full agency over— to be dictated by whether or not it will contribute to my wellbeing or serve as self-sabotage.

I recently read an interview with Chantal Miller , once known as Emily Doe, featured on The Cut. Last year, Miller wrote a memoir detailing surviving a sexual assault at the hands of Brock Turner that garnered national attention and scrutiny, watching her perpetrator face essentially little-to-no consequences for his physical violation of her body, as well as the process of putting the physical, mental, and emotional pieces of her life back together. I found the interview (and her beautiful book) to be incredibly powerful. While everyone could benefit from her approach to life and overcoming, it was one particular piece of wisdom that spoke loudly above the rest: When asked how she works through bad days, she said that she forces herself to “go find one good thing.”

Go find one good thing.

Training myself to look beyond the bubble of existential and bleak gloom I frequently exist in and search for one concrete, inarguable instance of good is not only vital, it also serves as catharsis. It is a necessary reminder that even in the midst of being suffocated by feeling overwhelmed and consumed by the nearly-constant internal and external work required of me to feel only mediocre— we’re not talking even moderately HAPPY— I am still capable of seeing and feeling and— most importantly— deserving of good things.

Sometimes that goodness will be superficial. Like today. Today, that one good thing looks like the grey acid-washed Isabel Marant onesie that is not only convenient and comfortable but also manages to create a sense of an active progression towards becoming the fictional lovechild I’ve always dreamed of: a balanced merging of my all-time style idol, Kelly Kapowski, and the queen of witty comebacks and overall Southern outrageousness, Clairee Belcher.

Other times, the one good thing I can find presents itself as another person’ human decency towards another or the sound of my kids laughing together at the same joke in the next room or a neighbor leaving a bundle of fresh vegetables on my porch from her garden. Most days, though, it just looks like being loved. The people who have known me at my best and continue to stand by me while I embody what feels like the worst possible version of myself are the constant good thing and sunshine through all of this.

All of this to say that, five very long months later, I’m not all together entirely fine. I’m better, yes. More emotionally balanced, maybe. Eh, most days, at least. But I’m not what is often taken for granted as normal. What the fuck even is normal?!?! I’m still struggling and still trying to figure out how to deal with all of this and manage it and not let the process of managing it consume me. I’ll get there. I’m sure of it. Maybe not tomorrow but hopefully another tomorrow in the not so distant future.

And until then, I’ll keep finding and being grateful for that one good thing.