I don’t think the medication’s working.
I mean, it’s working: I haven’t had any lows and my moods are more level, but level is the new high, so to speak. I’m up, like, all the time. I’m hypomanic, mildly mostly, but still, all the time. I’m unable to sleep.
And I don’t care.
I love the time and in between
The calm inside me
In the space where I can breathe
I believe there is a
Distance I have wandered
To touch upon the years of
Reaching out and reaching in
Holding out holding inI believe
This is heaven to no one else but me
And I’ll defend it as long as I can be
Left here to linger in silence
If I choose to
Would you try to understand
~ Elsewhere, Sarah McLachlan
It’s like, everyday, I wake up tired and groggy, whenever Zoë makes me roll off of the futon. Explaining how late that is would be embarrassing, but suffice it to say, it’s almost as late as my childless friends who freelance. But – and here’s the big part – I’m totally unable to wind down enough to sleep every night prior to (at least) 4am. I need, on these pills, at least seven hours or I’m just out, and sounds are unnoticed and I’m unmoving in my duvet cocoon, but I’m incapable of surpassing the insomnia that my upmood has created.
I’m enjoying it, too.
It’s a catch 22, since I’m getting so much alone time, quiet, peace, between the hours of Zoë dropping off and my head nodding while my face is buried in a book (currently, In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts, by Gabor Maté). I don’t want to give up those hours of pseudo-freedom, but it’s not fair to her – even if she’s completely happy and comfortable entertaining herself before she wakes me up – to miss the time with me.
I also don’t want to give up feeling up. Because frankly, up is where the fucking party lives. Up is where plans get made and followed through on. Up is the opposite of depression; Up is potential, drive and something I’d like to be able to consider happiness (but know better than).
So.
I don’t think the medication is working and I’ll have to report that to my shrink tomorrow and I don’t want to, but I should. For tonight, I’ll embrace aromatherapy and feel whistful about my soon-to-end hours of hush.
