It's time to go to bed, but I don't wanna.
We had this crazy art crisis here this afternoon and just about everyone lost their cool, especially me, and I'm not calming down, even after a second viewing of Silver Linings Playbook with Ms. M--, who says she can completely relate from the perspective of having been raised in that kind of environment.
"But why does it make you cry?" she asked as the credits roll.
Let's see... How many feel-good Bipolar flicks have you seen in your lifetime that both accurately portray the illness, and give its sufferers the humorous justice and hope they deserve?
And then we got into the ups and downs even with medication--namely fixation.
M-- remembers the cleaning, the teacups, the bouyant moods, the endless drives for the sake of driving. Then there's music (the same CD over and over in the span of two or three weeks until E-- is sick to death of getting into the van for hearing the same music again and everyone else has the lyrics down pat), and people (even if we're not romantically interested, it sometimes borders on obsession, which I'm certain totally weirds Normatives out, but it's this intense connection, or need for connection, and for some odd reason these people, or the idea of these people inspires currents of creative energy, so that really they are muses for a time, until it becomes too overwhelming and I have to let go), and activities (biking, walking, hiking, running, dance, poetry, playing the piano for hours, writing and writing and writing and writing, crocheting and origami for the sake of tactile rhythm and texture, and food--if I'm not actively working on new meals every night I eat the same things every single day), and ideas (poetry, choreography, philosophy, did I say philosophy, did I say philosophy, did I say philosophy?)
The problem isn't so much the fixations, because they really are quite harmless. The problem arises in how they affect everyone around me, and even more often than that, how the awareness of the behavior affects me. Because I do deal with anxiety surrounding the neurotic bounds of my actions and how overtly obvious it is that I'm not what others consider stable.
Silver Playbook Linings deals with what I'd consider Bipolar newbies. They haven't lived with their diagnoses long enough to grasp its complete hold on their lives, even with the Lithium, even with the Seroquel, even with the Klonopin. And yeah, I have a prescription for Trazadone waiting to be filled. (Duh, it makes you like.___. It's supposed to knock you out.)
So I watch them and I think, "Yeah, this is a wonderful happy ending. But when's the next hospitalization? When's this romance going to go toxic? When are they both going to feel so good being together that they convince themselves that they don't need the meds and decide to fly Bipolar Airways solo?" And yeah, I cry. It's bittersweet. That's the nature of living with the two-headed beast.
Oh, and in my second viewing it became that much more apparent when Pat and Tiffany were independently slipping into dissociative states of panic, and at one point I leaned over to M-- and said, "I was right about there when I drove myself to the hospital." It's painful to see these states portrayed so well. I'm going to have to shut down all media tomorrow so that if Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence don't win Oscars, I'll remain in a blissful state of ignorance.
Sometimes, even now that there is finally a feel-good Bipolar movie, I wish I lived in ignorance. G.I. Joe and that Knowing Battle, you know? Responsibility is a big thing. Sometimes it wants to forget delusions and office hook-ups and non-stop-rambling-on-social-media-becuz-its-less-conspicuous-than-talking-the-ear-off-of-people-that-I-know-get-tired-of-my-rants-and-rambling, and last but hardly the least the fact that it sucks to be the everyday ordinary girl walking down the street who sometimes has both suicidal and homicidal ideations.
I've got the panties on. I'm pulling them up to my navel. And the next time I'm asked to do the nice thing cuz I'm the girl always going out of her way to take care of everyone else, I'm toying with the concept of asking what's in it for me.
Even being the healthy Bipolar chick has its rollercoaster element. Like I'm telling you anything new.
(This entire post was purposefully written in an affected style. I'm fine. But thanks for caring.)