I already have the lethal dose, the 7 mg of Amitriptyline, it’s easy to get the rest for the suicidal cocktail. Now what? I’m scared that’s what. What if it doesn’t work and the psycho-psychiatrist I have at the moment gets me in a hospital under his control. He was talking frigging electroshock the last time I saw him. W T F!
Once I asked him, the psychiatrist, where he was from. He said he would never tell me anything about him cause he is the ‘doctor’ and I’m the ‘patient’. Mansplaining in the most despicable way.
But he is not what is wrong with this photo. No. It’s me. I’m the one.
When I died at the end of 2015 and my marriage imploded I was diagnosed by-polar II (that is type 2) by a team of 5 psychiatrist at the Hospital Duran in Buenos Aires. A TEAM of psychiatrists.
How did they know? Well I shopped over 2000 dollars of gifts that went to all the wrong people (you are welcome Tim Ferris for the double gift), booked airplane tickets and cars in cities I was not to visit (wrong places) and at the wrong hours, did not sleep or eat for days, and felt “great” -if confused.
I was the opening bit for Mad Men, well-dressed in black, falling down… About to crash, badly.
What did I do?
What does a bipolar person do?
Of course I denied it. Wouldn’t you?
No, I am not bipolar. Not me, I do YOGA, I am spiritual, I am good. Being bi-polar would mean I am not good, not healthy, not worthy of love, insane. It would mean I am crazy on the occasional high, good as it might feel to be better than everyone and run for president of Argentina.
But the lows, the ones that we get as bipolar-2-specifically, those are the worserest. Los peores. Those are the kind that get you to buy the lethal dose, just in case.
Two months ago the pain was too much.
“When the pain exceeds my capacity to cope I take pills to sleep entire weekends” I told Phil, “I don’t dare use the brilliant solution of ending-it-all because I’m a coward“. He freaked out. As he should. We don’t speak anymore.
A few months ago, Michael, a yoga teacher of world renown fame died of an overdose of fentanyl. He was about to come out with his own story of bi-polar -his partner said, pregnant, and after he died. I get it. During the lows I would have taken anything.
You know what the funny thing is? I fell BETTER because at least my bipolar is 2 and not 1. That’s how I know God is a sadistic comedian watching the show on Earthflix.
That is how stupid my brain is. How ego centered, how un-evolved, how ridiculous. Like, yeah, I am a type 2, so I’m good you know? You can still love me and read me and buy me a coffee. I’m chill, I’m not 1, never 1! I’m two.
My mom was bipolar too. They didn’t have numbers then. She died younger than I am today. She jumped out of a 7th floor. I get it, I admire her bravery, the pain must have been so much. Mummy. I am so sorry, and I TOTALLY get it. I still cry missing you in the bathtub when I hug my knees. You looked peaceful in the dark coffin but were cold when I kissed you. I wish
So yes, I am bipolar. There! I’m out.
Now my medication is the right one. Now I am balanced. Am I?
I don’t know, I can’t tell, I use markers…
For example, if I try to start directing traffic on 42nd street, like, stopping in front of a car to teach him not to cross on red lights, then I am likely on a “high”.
If orgasms last more than 5 minutes I’m on a high.
If I wake up at 2 in the morning and play the ukulele until 6, then dance then clean the house, then go to the gym, work and then to dinner with my friends, then, well. I’m fucking bipolar.
If I sleep more than 16 hours on the weekends, well, you get it. That’s a low. If I contemplate the cocktail, if I cry for more than an hour at work, in front of everyone, if I can’t stop telling myself I’m worthless, if I don’t write on the blog or my next book. Or, if I ‘just can’t’…. Then. Low.
This medicine is supposed to balance me. “Lamotrigine saved my life”, said a friend. Might save mine as well. Who is to tell?
I did, however, experiment, like Michael -the yoga teacher- with alternative things, although I did not go street-drugs. I didn’t go for ‘anything I wanted’, like mushrooms or pot or LSD or E. I tried none of that. But not because I’m better than anyone, no, it’s because I couldn’t find it. And my friends are good to me. In those days I would have taken anything!
I did find Kratom. A powder from somewhere in Asia that people use to get help with depression. Some with good luck. The government wants to ban it because, we have a stupid government. What a joke.
All Kratom did was make me vomit. That night, having dinner with Phil, “excuse me”, I said, and went to the bathroom. It was a green projectile fountain ejecting out of my mouth. That was it, oh and a relaxing feeling. But trust me, that thing tastes like shit, no, really, that IS the word that describes it.
If I say a lot of bad words…
So, I’m out of denial. I didn’t die. I understand. I get it. I will take the blinking medicine. I will be a good bi-polar 2 woman. AND, I have a new psychiatrist. Of course.
Might miss those highs though. They were sweet.
Power can fell like sugar from time to time.