Mania scored my consciousness in steep peaks and troughs that never descended into depression the last two weeks. I got into arguments and I loved them too well. It was easy to laugh and the laughter fed itself. I quoted scripture at my opponents, both religious and secular. The color red seemed especially intense. Once I thought I saw someone run across the hall when I was alone in the house.
I thought I had an easy answer that I also feared: my Vyvanse had pushed me up beyond my normal humor. But when I went to take the little yellow capsules out of my lineup for the week, I discovered that I had not been taking them! So the psycho-stimulant was not guilty.
What was causing me to erupt? I didn’t know for sure, but I knew what I had to do. I took an extra Xanax to force myself into several extra hours of sleep, avoided sites that pricked my optical nerves with shimmering and pulsing light, and meditated.
The only factor I could count was, perhaps, the longer duration of the days at Solstice time. Or maybe my carbamazepine was starting to fail me? I hope not.
This is why I live in fear of my illness, even after years of treatment. You think you have The Beast sealed under a layer of concrete, but the covering proves to be no stronger than a sheet that The Beast rips and tears when it feels like rousing itself.
One of the worst things about bipolar disorder is that way that good ideas and sound observations are discounted by others because you conceived them during mania. I was not writing gibberish these past two weeks. I stand by the stands that I made. But I am sure that others will write the ideas and me off for them.