(This is an unedited essay from a few years ago)
Lately (for the past 20 years or so) I have been reading about technology and it’s effects. It all started with Jane Healy’s Endangered Minds; Why Children Don’t Think and What We Can Do About It. Times have certainly changed since I read that one, in ways I couldn’t have imagined. If you know me well, you probably know that I am not technology’s biggest fan. And yet here I am on FB. Perhaps the old adage, “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em”, applies.
To be honest, I often feel alone in my opinions, well, me and Nicholas Carr.
One thing I have come across in my recent study is the tendency (given?) for those of us (all of us?) on social media to have two selves. IRL is what you get when you are in my real-time face-to-face presence, and then there’s what you see online. Most of us, the tech books say, present only the prettied-up version for our online personas. For example, if I want to keep it to myself that I have gained 15 pounds in the last year (which I have), I can choose to only post older pictures of my thinner self. There are also ways to clean up (delete) the pics others might post of me without my consent. I’m not sure how these things are done and if you look, I’m sure you can find some pretty unflattering pictures of me on the WWW. Oh well.
I know I’m stating the obvious but I have a point. Sort of.
Deep breath.
Some of you reading this may know, or perhaps have guessed, that I have a mental illness diagnosis. Well, I have more than one actually, but that isn’t pertinent to this particular story.
I suppose you could say that my “main” diagnostic label is Bipolar 2. Some refer to it as Bipolar Disorder, Type 2.
BP2 is often thought of as “Bipolar Lite” which it most definitely is NOT; ask my close friends and family if you don’t believe me on this. BP2 is: Not. Funny. And I mean that because I have never, ever done that word-period-word-period thing.
Since my 6 weeks of outpatient treatment at a place called The Center last year, my life has eased a bit. I learned a boat-load of skills that have made a significant difference. When checking in with my psychiatrist this past February, he agreed that I was (finally) doing much better and I could therefore pursue a program of weaning off my medication. I dumped the benzo first because, yeah, I read that damn study about long-term use increasing one’s risk of dementia by an astronomical percentage (my dear sis has dementia, so this really hit home with me). So many well-meaning mental health blogs list the myriad of effects from “discontinuation syndrome” that can last for years!! I’m not sure if reading such blogs is really helpful. I’m pretty sure it’s not.
After that success, I was ready to taper off my mood stabilizer (sounds SO much better than “anti-psychotic” doesn’t it?). By early June, I was happy to be taking only supplements and hormones.
A few weeks go by. Things seem OK. Mostly. But I’m pretty irritable. And then I’m downright angry much of the time. Throw in a little paranoia and mix well. And my always precarious sleeping skills seem to go up in smoke. Some nights I’m getting maybe 3 hours total. If you have BP2, or if you’re human, this is not good. I become the magician, frantically putting my hand in the hat, trying to pull out a rabbit, but there’s nothing there. Don’t worry if you didn’t understand that last line.
A few more weeks go by and I find myself swearing a lot at people I love, mostly when they are out of ear shot. Not good. Not me. My illness has the upper hand. Again.
(Just in case you’re wondering, I’m crying as I type)
Oh how I resist accepting this reality. I really, really wish this wasn’t in my hand of cards. But here we are.
IRL
15 pounds
bipolar 2
medicated
still chasing sleep
The End
by 