The Agony of Standing Still

Like every other American child, I started school when I was 5. Every day, I went to a classroom where I did activities, learned, socialized and played during recess. The evenings and weekends were full of rest and family functions,as well as some well deserved down time. The down time I had earned for all my hard work. My first job began when I was 16. While my education and employment history is riddled with outbursts, depression, anxiety and tears, it was a great distraction. It was goals and achievements but most of all, it was moving forward. Each day brought lessons learned. Each day was another brick layed on what would be my successful life. My mental health issues plagued each day, but the accomplishments and productivity served as a distraction and a source of pride.

My college education began at the age of 19. Like many people with mental health issues, my attendance was poor, my grades fluctuated and I had several occasions of stopping and restarting. Now, at 30 years old, I am only 3 classes away from a degree. It is an Associates degree, the lowest of degrees possible, but I have been working towards it for 10 years (it is supposed to take only 2 years) with at least 5 re-enrollment attempts with the promise of each enrollment that "this will be the time that I finish my degree. This will be the last time I re-enter the college life." and like the several times before, I would hit a rough spot, my grades would suffer and I would drop out.

It is comical now, but thinking back to my college days, every semester I would promise myself to complete the courses. Sometimes on a hypomanic whim, I would enroll in the maximum allowed credits. A typical full time student would enroll in 12, I would enroll in 18. Taking five or six courses swallowed any free time I had but upon my registration for the new semester, my grandiose thinking would promise me that I would achieve in taking the more than recommended course load. At some time in the beginning of the semester, I would come back to reality and realize that my courseload was too much. So, I would drop one, two or even three courses. "There", I would think, that should make it easier to breathe. And it did for a while. My grades were often good, I was able to manage my time and complete assignments.

But then the familiar dark cloud of depression would appear on the horizon. Slowly, it would move over me and steamroll my productivity, my passion, my effort, and my willingness to surivive. The A's turned into D's. Tests were failed, projects were not completed. I had lost my will to live. The poor grades reinforced my feelings of being a failure. Eventually I would stop going to school entirely.

"Dear Professor,
I would like to apologize for my recent absence(s). I am typically a devoted and punctual student with a high GPA, however this semester has left me with a severe case of (illness name) and I am under the care of a doctor."

I would then request make up work, offer to schedule an office meeting, offer an expected date of return or whatever suited the specific situation.

Sometimes I would return to school. What met me in each class was confusion, poor scores and being extremely behind. And guilt.

What made my grades average was that at some point(s), I had hypomania. Somewhere in the mess (this was before I took notice to a pattern of moods), I would have days or weeks of hyperactivity or what I referred to as "intermittent ADHD". It began suddenly. I would be sitting in a lecture hall, taking notes, and then get the greatest urge to jump. Climb the walls. My heart felt like it was coming out of my chest and I became a sexual goddess. I would stay awake all night working on school work, sometimes taking a small nap early in the morning and wake feeling fully refressed. I was excited to turn in all my hard work. I would dress colorfully in skirts (weather permitting) and make eye contact with everyone. My apathy would turn to joy, my drive would skyrocket. I would sign up for groups, quit my job, become obsessed with subjects or hobbies and socialize excessively. Then, I would stay up all night working on home work or projects. I wrote 36 pages in one sitting. I would read chapters of textbooks and study for hours. I was a genius. My aspirations would switch between wanting to major in Archaeology to wanting to be a Psychologist and everything else in between. I never officially switched majors because my obsession with that profession which would engulf my thoughts would last for only a few days or a week.

At some point, the crash would come, and my obsessions and productivity and endless energy would suddenly crash. In the middle of class. Driving home. At work.

This crash, and wave sensation was not new. It has always been there. Before my career. Before college. Before my period. It had always been there. I find comfort in the fact that I now know what the symptoms my mental illness are, and what is real life. What is normal, and what is not. But the trick is, it's hard to tell what is real and what is not.

In the last six months I have switched life courses dozens of times. Once, I became so obsessed with a business idea that I spent 6 days researching and reading, forgoing hygiene and responsibilities. I skipped work for three days so I could devote my time to my true calling; my business. Once I returned to work, I was so hyper that I couldn't stand still. My mind was racing and my mouth was watering and I couldn't think of anything except my new business idea. My heart was beating fast and I felt pressured to keep talking about my business. But I was at work. So I held it in and pretended to be fine.

Then, like a light was turned off, or a drain had been pulled, every ounce of hope, ambition, dedication and excitement drained out of me until there was nothing left but an empty shell of a body. I again, skipped out on work. I again followed the up/down, off/on pattern that I knew so well.

The company I worked for had grown impatient with my inconsistent dedication, my excessive absences and my intermittent ADHD. I resigned. I dropped out of college, for the 6th time.

And I sought help. The up and down waves that I had grown up with appeared to be symptoms of Bipolar Disorder. I was no stranger to mental health offices, I began seeing therapists at the age of 4 for Anxiety. The depression began at the age of 11. That is also when I began to make notations in my school agenda as to where my mood was at. Up arrows for up days, down arrows for down days. Up and down, up and down, up and down. I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder Type II as well as Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

My life of (intermittent) ambition is at a stand still. I am standing still. I am pursuing no goals. I am working towards nothing. Well, actually, thats a bit of a lie. A couple months ago I became conviced I was the next Hemmingway and spent three days (night and day) pursuing a career as an author. I didn't sleep. I obsessed and wrote and wrote and obsessed. Until the fog of depression rolled in and I crawled into bed where I spent 6 weeks in a depressive fog so intense that I began cutting my thigh with a knife in the bathroom. The guilt ate me alive. The shame. I decided I was worthless. My family was better off without me. If only I could dissapear and not cause pain in doing so. No funeral. No body. Just float away.

So I stand still. And it is agonizing. No work. No school. No productivity. When the depression rolls in, I am so grateful that I have no where to call in sick to, no classes to miss, no work to fall behind on. I am so thankful that I can become catatonic with sadness and there are no consequences. But then there are days when I feel fine and I watch the neighbors leave for work, and the children leave for school and I want to go with them.

Then, suddenly, over a matter of minutes, tiny marbles of energy enter my body. My toes tingle and my hands search for something to clean. Something to organize. Something to create and master and learn and achieve. I am A GENIUS. I am BRILLIANT. I am capable of ANYTHING. I CAN FLY. A small suggestion from a friend, a magazine article, an idea catches my attention and I cling on. I invest. I passionately obsess knowing that this idea is BRILLIANT and totally attainable. I am limitless. I write and I write and I read and I plan. I volunteer and I sign up and commit and promise and take in more and more and more tasks. Then, the drain is pulled. And back to bed I go. Getting out of bed is like climbing a mountain. My arms weigh hundreds of pounds. I shuffle through the house with the curtains drawn. I wish I didn't exist. I day dream about suicide. I mentally count the number of knives that I had hidden in the bathroom. I don't want to cut. I want to stab.

I am so angry with myself for not pursuing school. I am so angry with myself for not working. I should be leaving for work, like the neighbors. I should continue working towards that measly degree.

My pattern is still there. My up arrows and down arrows are still there. So I stand still, unsure of what direction to go, what to pursue, and what is reality and what is my mind running away with itself.

Standing still is agonizing. It is un-American. It is shameful. It is a life not experienced.