When I start to get manic, there are some things I always notice about my changing behavior before it becomes wide-eyed craziness. (I didn’t think I was anywhere close to manic until this morning, but here I am, feeling way way way “up.”) Actually, I haven’t had a full-blown manic episode that’s landed me in the hospital in 10 years; since that 28-day hospitalization in college, I’ve flirted with mania and often become what the professionals term “hypomanic.”
Now that I’ve clarified that. When I’m hypomanic (still able to go to work/school/not completely delusional), it feels like great fun for a little while. What I feel is utterly grateful to be walking around on this beautiful planet. Literally, I will think to myself, “I’m beautiful. I’m great. I’m so lucky to be alive.” I’ll buy clothes. I’ll flirt with everyone in my path. I’ll come up with some big project that, in my mind, is the most ingenious idea anyone has ever had.
But then I do something really stupid. Then the bubble bursts. I send a really inappropriate e-mail to an ex-boyfriend or co-worker. I am at a party, and I find it necessary to monopolize everyone’s attention, but then I can’t remember what the hell I’m saying. Finishing sentences becomes impossible because my thoughts are slippery inside my head. Things start to crumble.
It’s once I get embarrassed and/or scared by the hypomania (and sometimes this is just because the reality of being in a state mental hospital 10 years ago is still so vivid in my mind) that I douse the manic fire with 14 hours of Seroquel-induced sleep followed by a Seroquel hangover that has me in a state where I’ve all but forgotten the unabated bliss I felt before drugging myself the night before.
I only take a very low dose of Seroquel on a nightly basis, but last night I skipped it entirely.
I just felt like I wanted to get up early this morning.
I felt like I was sick of the Seroquel.
That little pink pill was annoying me.
And sadly, maybe I am searching for a little mania, even if I know it’s bad for me.