Evolution

I went through high school unmedicated. My illness flew under the radar, mostly because I played sports year around, and I exercised at least two hours a day, except some weekends. I didn’t sleep much, particularly in high school. I don’t think my parents realized I did homework until 12:00 AM and woke up at 4:30 or 5:00 the next morning. I procrastinated on all my homework, plus I had the aforementioned games and practices, so I consistently put myself in a tough spot in regards to sleep duration.

I easily averaged five hours of sleep for most of my sophomore year through my senior year. But all that exercise meant as soon as I put my head on my pillow, I fell asleep. I was likely hypomanic most of the time for at least two and a half years. My favorite author describes hypomania as three-quarters manic.

My hypomania in high school manifested itself in extreme productivity when I chose to do something, and I didn’t need much sleep. The only reason I was able to play all the sports and did so well in school was because of my undiagnosed illness.

But thinking back on my childhood, my illness showed itself in less appealing ways as well. I learned after my diagnosis that part of having bipolar is extreme irritability at times. I was nothing during my childhood if not irritable. I have vivid memories of yelling at pretty much every member of my family, often for no reason. I remember what a horrible teammate I was at times because I took sports so seriously and couldn’t understand how my peers didn’t care about winning. I took practices more seriously than most of my teammates took games. I am not shy about admitting I was an absolute asshole growing up.

A few months after graduating high school, I went 85 hours without sleep (I don’t recommend that), and ended up manic and had a psychotic break thrown in for fun (I don’t recommend that, either). I do not have a solid grasp on my sleeping patterns in the weeks after being put on medicine. I do know I woke up before 4:00 AM a few times. After a month or two, I started needing at least eight hours of sleep at night—often, more like ten or eleven. I was basically useless after dinner because my medicine made me tired. Part of me was thankful my diagnosis was delayed because there’s no way I could’ve accomplished all that I did in high school if I needed a full night of sleep every night.

Up until my manic episode, I never struggled falling asleep. All I had to do was go to bed, and I’d instantly go into deep slumber. It took me a few years to figure out tricks to fall asleep quickly again. I started college the spring after my diagnosis, and I had to take Trazidone for sleep. I hated it. It left me groggy until at least noon, and I hated the way it made me feel. I didn’t have energy or time to exercise because I was sleeping so much, albeit poorly.

I gained fifteen pounds my first semester of college. Eventually, I noticed how much weight I gained and I vowed to start exercising again. That helped my energy levels in the morning, although it didn’t help me fall asleep at night. After struggling to fall asleep for at least a year, I discovered exercising before bed helped me fall asleep incredibly quickly. So, I took up the habit of running my dormitory stairs right before bed. I’ve never slept so well as I did in college. I’d go to bed at 8:00 PM and wake up at 4:00 AM ready to go.

Even though my sleep was much more consistent in college, I still sometimes had nights where I’d wake up after only three or four hours of sleep. Because of books I read, I knew those short nights resulted in hypomania. I cannot remember how frequent hypomania was for me in college, but I know it happened enough for me to recognize it as soon as I woke up—some of the key symptoms for me were a headache and an inability to regulate my body temperature (I’d be freezing and sweating at the same time). I also felt empty most of the day, no matter how much I ate, and I had boundless energy—no amount of physical exertion fatigued me during the day.

The bouts of hypomania still came packaged with extreme irritability. I graduated college in December of 2014, and then moved out of my parents’ house and into an apartment at the end of 2015. My hypomanic episodes might’ve become more frequent once I lived alone. I even had a couple nights where I didn’t get any sleep at all. By then, I knew how to ensure good sleep the night after a subpar sleep outing—namely, exercising before bed, or eating an extremely carb-heavy meal for dinner (the antipsychotic I take knocks me out if I take it after eating pizza or pasta).

The irritability I experienced during hypomania was unreal. Granted, if things were going well, my hypomania put me in great and sociable moods. My best moods and funniest quips came when hypomanic. I started relying on hypomania for good moods. I was loose and goofy when hypomanic. I was also sometimes incredibly obnoxious. My family started recognizing hypomania as well. They weren’t always huge fands, which was understandable. I could go from goofy to murderous in half a heartbeat. And once my mood turned, I’d brood for the rest of the day, if not the next 72 hours.

Hypomania never lasted forever, unfortunately (and fortunately), and I realized a couple years into living on my own that mild depressions were served as a nice dessert after hypomanic episodes. While hypomanic, I’d need seven hours of sleep or less and be extremely productive the whole time—no matter how much sleep I got. The mild depressions came packaged with needing at least ten hours of sleep to feel rested.

Thankfully, my version of depression really just made me lethargic. Some people with bipolar experience depressions in which they literally cannot move for days, and their minds are filled with such despair that they don’t think they can go on. I have never experienced a major depression, likely because of the mood lifter I take every night.

In November of 2017, I adopted a dog—Harper. The nights I woke up at 2:00 AM and couldn’t go back to sleep were cut by two-thirds, at least. Harper’s presence made it easier for me to fall asleep if I woke up incredibly early. Hypomania was still accessible, although it’s frequency and severity decreased significantly.

I accepted my diagnosis pretty quickly, and once I did, I started letting it define me. The biggest indication of that was when I told people I had bipolar disorder, I actually said, “I am bipolar.” It was a small thing, I thought.

I am bipolar.

I am bipolar.

I am bipolar.

And because of that phrasing, I started letting my illness define me. I told people my illness didn’t define me, but by my phrasing, which I didn’t think too much about, I definitely did let my illness define much about me. I believed I could only be in a good mood if I was hypomanic. Oh, I’m in a good mood, must be hypomania. And I discounted my irritability and assholery on being bipolar. I cannot help that I am this way. I am bipolar. Sorry.

In 2020, I basically lost all access to hypomania. Even if I only had five or six hours of sleep, I wouldn’t be hypomanic. I was very human after short nights, all of a sudden. I never felt particularly productive if I didn’t get my normal eight or nine hours of sleep.

By then, I’d been in therapy for two years, and it took me several months to realize I’d lost hypomania. I experienced great moods even without it, which shocked me. Wait, I thought, I can be in a good mood without a form of psychosis? Wild.

Even more shocking was recognizing that my good moods were no longer inhibited by irritability running under the surface. When I was in a good mood, I was genuinely happy and funny. No more moods turning on a dime because someone said or did something annoying. I also stopped holding grudges around this time; before, if I allowed something to make me angry, I’d carry the anger for a few days. I developed somewhat of a goldfish memory: I sometimes forget why something made me angry unless I sit there and really think about it, which I rarely find necessary.

Around the same time, I also started saying and believing that I have bipolar disorder, instead of saying I am bipolar. I am now very intentional about it. I made the necessary substitution of “have” for “am.”

I went so long without hypomania, I thought I’d never experience it again. I wrote a blog post about it. I put that blog post in a memoir I’m working on. Goodbye hypomania, it was mostly fun. See you around. Imagine my surprise when hypomania hit me in December of 2021. My therapist is the one who suggested I was experiencing hypomania again. I had an appointment with her, and I could not take anything seriously. Everything was funny. I was so giggly. I actually brushed her off about it. After a few more days of elation and giggles, I knew she was probably on to something.

Ah. So hypomania had been dormant, not dead. It had evolved, though. The irritability aspect was much less prevalent, and my hypomania almost unrecognizable now because it is so subtle. Early on, hypomania was very loud and in my face, what with the irritability and extreme symptoms, plus it happened frequently. Now, it’s rare, and the biggest indicator is getting the giggles and finding everything funny. I love laughing, and when I’m hypomanic I laugh even more.

My husband and I carpool to work a few times a week, and the other day on our drive home, I discovered an Instagram page with hilarious relationship memes. I read them out loud to him and was crying from laughing so hard, basically the whole way home. I realized then that I was probably hypomanic.

To me it’s a chicken or egg phenomenon: was I hypomanic so everything was funny? Or did all that laughter spin me up into something resembling hypomania? I’m not sure. Either way, my moods are not as volatile or extreme as they used to be, probably mostly because I have my sleep needs and tricks buttoned up, and I know how important it is to get adequate sleep each night. I move mountains to ensure my sleep isn’t disrupted. Being married has also helped. We’ve been married almost ten months, and I can count the number of short nights I’ve had on one hand.

One reason I feel confident in my ability to course correct if my sleep gets a little out of whack is because of my medicine. I take it religiously. I never make any excuses not to take it. Sometimes I forget, and that’s rare. I have become more flexible over the years, so taking my medicine doesn’t get in the way of evening plans like it used to. I can still go out and have a good time—I just take my medicine later than normal.

When I first started taking medicine for my bipolar, I put up mild rebellions against my parents. I never didn’t take it, but I let them know I was not pleased with them forcing me to take medicine. That phase didn’t last long, and even though I sometimes wonder if I could make it without my medicine, I never take any steps in that direction; I’m too scared of where I might end up if I go off my antipsychotic and mood lifter/stabilizer. I don’t have any nefarious side effects from either, so the only reason to dislike it is because of how expensive it is (mainly the antipsychotic).

The expense is worth it because I am able to act as a productive member of society and don’t have to worry about having manic episodes, or worse, psychotic breaks. I’m proud of my discipline over the years to stay healthy and sane. I have no aspirations of having another episode, and everything I’ve done over the past twelve-plus years has helped give me confidence in my ability to stay in my right mind, no matter what life might throw at me.