Brain fog. Depression. Tiredness.
All part of my world for the last 48 hours.
I take the same pills every day. I go through the same routines every day.
I have been working out and for a while, the endorphins have been amazing.
There was a crushing blow to my sense of competence Wednesday evening that may be responsible for some of this, but not all.
I can get out of bed. I don’t want to.
I can go to work. I don’t want to.
Ever since I started working here, I have literally fought through one obstacle after another to keep and work this job as well as I could. It may not seem apparent, but the way I was put together, I have a hard time sitting at home and cashing a disability check.
I am avoiding my co-workers and people in general as much as I can the last few days. Explanations only go so far when I have trouble putting how this feels into words. Explanations also fall on bewildered ears. I can’t expect others to understand the landscape my mind inhabits – it is as foreign to them as the dark side of the Moon.
So I’ve been working out with weights both at home at work. I have been attempting my best self-care. But when you have this condition, sometimes all the king’s horses and king’s men can’t stop you from being smacked in the head with the bipolar bat.
I isolate myself in my office. It is a blessing management has been gone on a government paid junket to Nashville all week. I can have my door closed and suffer in silence. I grind my way slowly through my work, trying to pace myself while fighting to stay away and stay focused. Sometimes I lose the battle and put my head down just like we used to do in elementary school; a five minutes heads-on-desk rest before we get back to phonics.
I am not looking forward to this weekend in this respect – I will spend it crawling around the house in a daze trying to get my mojo back before having to come back here on Monday and knowing the shit storm I will be greeted with when all the projects that have lingered without management approval suddenly become priority one missions.
Yesterday I messaged my wife that if someone had come up and put I gun to my head, I would have begged them to pull the trigger. I just didn’t give a damn – about anything.
Can anyone understand this? Or, can anyone who is not affected by this damn disorder understand how much we hate living like this? Yes, there are good times. But when the bad times return, and they always do, we’re reminded they always will return and any plans must take into account the grenade in our brains may go off at any time.
The day the SWAT team came to my house, the phrase that led to the event, the words that set the whole chain of events into motion were in the form of a very simple question I asked my co-worker: “did you ever have one of the mornings when you wished you hadn’t woke up?”
It’s still a legitimate question. And one I almost died for asking.
If it happens again, they can take their best shot.
And, no, I know you don’t understand that at all.