A little over thirteen years ago, during my first week of college, I stopped sleeping. I was recovering from wisdom tooth surgery, and I was probably well on my way to mania before I officially stopped sleeping.
By my count, I went 85 hours without sleep. I likely had a psychotic break thrown in as a bonus. I got diagnosed with bipolar disorder later that week. The manic episode is something I’ll never forget; not a bad thing. I am religious about my sleep and taking my medication because losing my mind is something I’d rather not repeat.
The recovery was grueling. I remember talking and talking and talking and saying nothing nothing nothing. I later found out people with bipolar experience pressured speech as a part of mania, which means they feel compelled to talk all the time.
During the first phases of my recovery, my family never understood me, which I found infuriating. Pretty early on, I recognized I was the problem. I told my family to tell me when I didn’t make sense, and they honored the request. I’d go on one of my diatribes, and my family would say, “You’re not making any sense…” and I’d say, “Okay. Okay,” and redouble my efforts, desperately wanting to articulate the millions of thoughts racing through my head.
But I couldn’t.
No amount of effort on my part resulted in understanding on my family’s. Although my thoughts certainly ran amuck, they seemed to make sense right up until I verbalized them. I’d get going about something and expect my audience to receive enlightenment from my words.
They did not.
At first, I took the lack of epiphany as someone wanting me to elaborate further. So I did. Over and over and over. Not to be discouraged at the outset, I’d move on to the next subject to see if the person I was torturing could grasp my vast intellect. Rinse and repeat
Looking back, part of my problem was I thought I knew more than I did. I vividly remember watching Bones one day soon after being diagnosed, and I started blinking as fast as I could. Someone in my family asked what I was doing.
“Well. If you blink really fast, you can actually reach REM. So, I’m basically sleeping right now.” And I kept blinking.
“I’m pretty sure that isn’t how it works.”
“Oh. I’m pretty sure it is….”
Who knows if I had any quack evidence to back up my claim. Who knows if I started blinking because I thought I could reach REM, or if I came up with the explanation on the spot after being caught doing something else weird.
I felt trapped anytime I felt misunderstood. There was nothing I could do about it. Thoughts tumbled out of my mouth before they were fully formed. Granted, no thoughts were truly ever fully formed. Thoughts darted in and out like dog who cannot decide if it wants to be inside or outside.
Constantly.
Five thoughts in oh and gone by the time I start talking about one what about this thought or these three why not this one no no it has to be this one this is a good one gone again.
My mind was like a horrible run on sentence that wouldn’t end. And run on sentences make everyone who encounters them miserable.
Racing thoughts are an early warning signal for me these days. My thoughts have never been as out of control as when I experienced mania (hopefully the first and only time). Under the rule of hypomania, my thoughts will speed up a bit, which puts me on alert. A good night or two of sleep squelches hypomania quickly.
I cannot recall any conversations since recovering from my manic episode where I flatly failed to explain what I was trying to communicate. Sometimes, my first attempt is unclear because I get excited or keyed up about something and don’t take time to form the thoughts before verbalizing them. Once I slow down and form my words more carefully, understanding is always reached.
The other day, I jokingly texted my friend about her creating a monster: Years ago, she “gave me permission” to read more than one book at a time. Right now, I think I’m reading twenty books or so—some, I haven’t picked up in over a year, so reading is obviously used liberally here. So, this turn of events is obviously her fault. I texted her right before my therapy session explaining the problem and her part in it. My therapy session was good and a little emotional.
On my way to my car, I looked at my texts. My friend responded and said, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
My stomach dropped. My mind instantly went to “I’m not making sense.” I read my text again. No. It was very clear what I said. I think anger hit me then. That text wasn’t hard to understand. But I wasn’t going to sit there and explain it further. Some wound deep in my psyche had been triggered; a wound I did not know I still had. I simply texted, “Okay.”
She came back with an upside down smiley face. Her playful emoji.
“You’re just messing with me?”
“Yes.”
I did not recover quickly. I mulled over why I reacted the way I did. The likely offender: the sensation thirteen years ago of feeling trapped in my own mind while I was simultaneously outside of it.
I explained the reason I thought I reacted so strongly to her text. She apologized. I told her there was no way for her to know (I didn’t even know those touchpoints still existed). Once I learned she was joking, the anger went away but the stress from the encounter did not pass. I calmed down and apologized for overreacting.
I almost went scorched earth with her after seeing her first message. I ignored that impulse (fighting with her never ends well for me) and went a more passive aggressive route. I regret my overreaction and passive aggressiveness.
I didn’t even think about the possibility she was joking. We could’ve had some fun, witty banter, but I botched the encounter and then got stuck in my head even after realizing I botched it. I could have recovered after her smiley face but chose to be in a mood instead.
The kind explanation for me brooding is a desire to figure out what caused such a visceral reaction to something innocuous. Maybe by identifying it, I can avoid similar pitfalls in the future. (Or maybe I just wanted to be mad at someone and the opportunity presented itself, albeit unexpectedly. Sometimes, particularly after therapy or going through something else vulnerable, I have the urge to fight someone for no apparent reason.)
Either way, I learned something new about myself because the feeling of panic at not being understood was very real in the moment. My subsequent response certainly lacked maturity and anything resembling emotional intelligence. My lizard brain took over and I went into fight or flight mode even though it wasn’t appropriate for the scenario.
My friend told me not to dwell on it. I dwelled on it, anyway, and now I’ve written a blog post about it. Mostly because I wanted to process through my reaction in writing; one of the best ways for me to discover the why behind my behavior and reactions.
Between Two Poles 