The Down Side of Up and Down

My short but disastrous history of relationships and friendships,  probably lend credence to the argument that it is next to impossible to live with a Bipolar 1 sufferer, with an lavish, lashing of PSTD, just to add a little extra spice. 

Personally, I fear that people (especially when enamoured) are too quick to make commitments or promises before they realise the often disastrous repercussions of what it is they are agreeing to. 

Don’t get me wrong. I do try total honesty when I provide a list of my ‘special’ symptoms or rather the way in which my particular disorder manifests itself. 

May I also add, that at this point I tell them, that at the very least, they will Never be bored. Should sound ominous right? Nah, it actually piques their interest. 

When I am manic I am an extreme extrovert. I just love people.  The best example of this was my 40th birthday party.  During the preparations I was very manic and wanted to share my joy. On the actual day of the party the good part of mania had lost its charm. I was expecting 20 close family members.  Almost 200 people pitched up, mobile disco included and I could hardly remember any of them. 

When I say I suffer from insomnia I mean extreme insomnia. (Especially during mania) I sleep about 6 hours a week. Initially I am able to write well and coherently as fatigue sets in I start painting – and I mean everything.  I once painted the whole interior of my house in fronds of ivy (did not go down well). A couple of years ago, I opened up a garden gnome hospital for all those poor, rejected garden gnomes who were no longer thought of as cool. (My brother says I project my divorce angst onto them). True as that may be I spruce up their little outfits, repeatedly. Even at night times when I walk around with a head-torch to do the job. 

I have fewer inhibitions, my clothes become slightly more daring, makeup heavier, talk at the speed of light, think at the speed of lighting, and then…I start feeling irritable.  My hearing becomes oversensitive, my skin hurts. I no longer like people. 

The idea of swan diving off bridges or a perpetual Snow White like slumber becomes intriguing.  You are no longer fun to be around. 

Lovers and friends feel hurt, betrayed.  You haven’t got the energy to still have to reassure them. So you don’t. 

I have a vicious temper (worsened by PSTD). And there is no stopping it now. 

If, at this stage your loved one is a Saint and has decided to stick around, they now have the pleasure of watching you shut down – totally. 

I fold in upon myself. Try and become one with the mattress. I do not talk, bathe, shower, eat, answer the phone, brush my hair, open the door. 

As a matter of fact, I become mould.  A sort of exotic  cheese with bad breath and even worse hair. 

The strangest thing happens to me when my medicine kicks in. The washed out grey of depression, is suddenly saturated with rich, vivid, vibrant colour. Rich. The colour of life. 

My Saint (bless him he is still around), Daniel has never referred to me as insane. 

No. When people ask him to describe me, he tells them I am am “Colourful” and I really love that. 

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