Excessive Cheerfulness

Posted on March 6, 2009 in Body Language Mania Partnership

Every time I confess my limitations, I worry. There are the people who, when we get in a fight, lash out by saying that ~I~ am the one “losing it”. Mental illness is an instant defeat in their book. It can, if you look too narrowly, appear as if you are losing the respect of the whole world. The truth is that when people know you, they care for you and cut you breaks.

Last week I needed a few hits on my asthma inhaler. Consequently, my mood ramped up so high that on Saturday night people on Twitter complained about my excessive cheerfulness and loquaciousness. Early Sunday morning I ran a scan to see how fast I was going: during the first one and a half hours of March, I discovered, I had tweeted 148 times, just missing tripping the governor that stops you at 100 tweets an hour. I had set this off earlier in the week. I had not known that such a control existed ((I do not call for removing it. Some of us need a warning of that type. I wish I could set my speed – for example, asking it to stop me after 75 tweets instead of 100 so that I get an earlier warning of my manic outbursts.)) .

Later I woke my poor wife up at 3 in the morning to read something that I had written in response to a comment. I knew then that I was running hot and might make a mistake in judgment such as calling my opponent some foul name or accusing my antagonist of a dark purpose that existed, quite possibly, in my mind alone. No remorse accompanied my actions: I felt great. That is why I needed checking. I laughed at my barbs but removed them at Lynn’s suggestion before I published it.

My now former therapist might have questioned why I needed to respond in the first place, but I scoffed at the idea of silence. She might have questioned why I needed Lynn to check my work. For someone who claimed to have experience tending people who have mood disorders, she showed great ignorance of the disease and the need to monitor one’s behavior at all times. She thought it demeaning to me, for example, to place our financial affairs in Lynn’s hands – as if my wife were going to rob me or strip me of my dignity. We do the bill thing as partners. I can look anytime at the financial records if I choose. But I know that it is better that I don’t and by not doing so, I preserve my self-respect by not plunging the household into financial chaos brought on by my grand designs and panics.

I see this as a practical answer to the problem of my lapses into freespending. Looking at the money matters of our household upsets me and pushes me towards episodes. I run the risk of either thinking we have money to spend (when there is actually a large amount that had already been budgeted) or that we are on the verge of financial collapse. I can be induced either to pay out large amounts on worthless items or go on a binge of parsimony in which I starve myself. My therapists didn’t get these clear and present dangers and the importance of keeping to certain habits even if you are feeling well. Keeping them always makes me less likely to break them in times of crisis, you see.

Lynn has certain plans in place just in case I go over the top. For example, she can report my credit card lost or stolen if it seems that I am going into a manic phase. There’s not a lot she can do when I am feeling sad – force me to spend against my will She’s left with the recourse of spending the money herself. This is why I have her pay the bills. I have been known to think I am too poor and withhold money because I believe I am running out of it. No spending on food, clothing, rent, etc. all because of this belief that afflicts me. These things are always there, stalking my peace of mind. You never get cured of this disease. You must always be on your guard. That is what my last therapist – with all her years of experience – didn’t seem to get. Some therapists say to themselves “I can cure this poor man of his delusions”. But they keep coming back just when I think things will be fine — if only I can do something about the wheezing in my chest….

One maddening thing that keeps happening in the wake of last Saturday night’s event is that people keep asking me “Are you OK? Are you OK?” as if I am ready to doff my clothes and go hitchhiking nude down the freeway. One fellow who I knew in Partial Hospitalization told me that he was on the phone one night laughing at some jokes his friend was telling. His father hovered just around the corner. “Are you all right? Are you all right, son?” “Dad,” he told him. “I’m allowed to laugh.”