So I think this might be a brilliant picture of the manic part of the experience. We’ve just climbed out of a very dark tunnel, that the people around us, (including some of the doctors if they would be honest with us, believe we dug ourselves, and they’re mad at us for causing them problems. They’ve basically kicked us out, but because they couldn’t be rid of us completely, they just kind of said “stand here and watch for signs of trouble,” except we’re out of the tunnel and we’re daydreaming, finally:
We just escaped it, with everybody still mad at us for being in the tunnel. We’re functioning again, blind to the approaching danger. And at the end of our swan song, we realize, oh shit, the hyenas are about to eat me, and we crash back down and we’re falling, with everybody mad at us for causing so many problems, as if we wouldn’t help ourselves and everyone else if we could. Manic phase, to our surprise, has abruptly ended. We have no explanation why.
There’s a cure. But we’re still trying to find it, with people denying the truth and blaming us for everything and calling it a hoax and so on. The meds they use feel worse than the disease, I’m told. I wonder myself if the cure is something readily available, right in front of us and we aren’t being told the truth because doctors and pharmacists and manufacturers are busy getting our money and insurance money and so on. “Lord, I believe! Help my unbelief! (Mark 9:24)” Because
Here’s the other, more downward, part of that sine wave. The panthers are chasing us through the forest, to the edge of the cliff, and along comes a fucking doctor, saying, “it’s all right, we can figure this out,” and us responding “I hate you,” because their “help” ain’t helping. My wife really wants me to go. For the depression. But I’m reading the research that says my cycle is slow and meds might make it rapid.
That’s why I don’t really want the help.
because if I let them, I’m afraid this will happen:
And at the bottom of the waterfall, we’ve been bumped around, slammed into the rocks, tossed down a waterfall, we’re tied up, we’re completely helpless, so are the doctors, we’re irritable as a wet llama with no change of clothes, and it’s fucking raining. Everything I read tells me the side effects don’t warrant me being their llama. I mean, a guinea pig. And I’m falling down the waterfall again. Ugh. Here I go again. I’ll just ride it out again. I hope. Hopefully I’ll be back on the “Now my status ain’t so quo” side again in another few months. And maybe it’ll last a while.
Thank God, for me it’s cyclothymia with a long cycle and not a rapid wash and spin cycle tossing me up and down and around like a rag doll in a washing machine a couple of times a day. No matter how bad I feel, there are people I can pray for because I don’t have it so bad. At least that’s what I’ve been told. And yeah, I am praying for everyone who’s suffering, because who knows? Maybe the cure will be discovered because I asked God to reveal it. If I don’t ask, I don’t get what I want.
“You want something but don’t get it. You kill and covet, but you cannot have what you want. You quarrel and fight. You do not have, because you do not ask God.” – James 4:2 (NIV)
I’m asking, OK, God? Could we please have an answer other than “in this life you will have trouble?” (And then the irritating “Be of good cheer” instruction that follows in John 16:33, of course, and makes me want to swear some more, and throttle a scribe or two.)
Is it me, or did this mania part not last as long as it should have? “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting all funned out.” Fuck.
“Bring it on.”