I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder not once or twice but three times by three different diagnosticians. One psychiatrist even went so far as to specify my variation as Bipolar I, the extreme flavor. I’ve taken Risperdal in the past but never felt its effect. Lithium made me gain weight, turned me into a human balloon. Lamictal mad my hands shake. Seroquel was worthless. Abilify made me diabetic and turned me into a compulsive gambler. Latuda gave me syncope. I was sitting in the Northgate mall and suddenly I had double vision. For the life of me I couldn’t sync the two images together. When I tried to stand up I just fell back into the seat. Horrible drug. I’ve also briefly experimented with Geodon and Zyprexa. Those were wastes of time. It just seems like antipsychotics refuse to work in my body, or if they do, give me such bad side effects that I eschew them altogether. So what keeps me grounded? Beer. Not the best therapy but at least it works.
So what am I like when I’m in manic mode? Two years ago I turned into Hemingway. I was an unstoppable force when it came to writing. Over a relatively short period of time I wrote two novels, nine novellas, four screenplays, about 40 or 50 short stories, and a handful of poems. My brain just couldn’t slow down. Always click-clacking like a runaway telegraph machine, I was researching and writing in various libraries around the Seattle area like there was no tomorrow. From sun up to sun down, words just effortlessly flowed from me like rain out of the Fountains of Rome. But then came the crash.
Around the time this manic episode subsided, I had begun promoting my various works using the internet and retail stores in Seattle. When I started settling into some kind of depression, my promoting came to a halt. It suddenly didn’t matter if the world knew about my creative output. I turned into the proverbial tortoise yanking its head back into its shell. This cloud of depression has swept over me so strongly that, even though I’m now domiciled, I just can’t find the wherewithal to get my promotional and creative juices flowing again. I isolate to the point I’m turning into Chris McCandless. I’m Alex Supertramp without the Alaskan frontier or the broken down bus. My activity level is nil and I simply just lack the energy. And, yes, I probably sleep too much and think about death way too often as well. I’m guessing this depressive wave will come to and end soon, and man, I can’t wait. I know there’s another story in me waiting to be told.