Spotlight on Symptoms: Desert Mouth.

One of the most noticeable symptoms of the bipolar disorder experience is actually a side effect of lithium. Unlike other symptoms, desert mouth reminds me that I have a serious illness. Minute by minute.

I'd read about lithium side effects, so I knew desert mouth (as I now call it) might happen. And oh, it did. My mouth gets so dry that I can barely speak. My mouth seems to cave in like sand. My mouth adheres to my teeth. Eating can be a struggle. I get suffocating sensations in my throat and chest.

I became obsessed with water (you should see my Pinterest) in all forms. I struggled to teach and had to pause often to drink. I tried many water bottles (my current favorite is Pogo, which I have in hot pink and in teal). If I didn't have water access, I'd start to panic. One day, I kept track of my water consumption for 24 hours. I drank 7 1/2 liters of water. I was up at night, crazy thirsty. Having water with me was as important as having my purse and my inhaler with me. Those close to me are conscious of my thirst and make sure I have water and ice.

I'm drinking water right now.

Self-Censorship.

I think I've always censored myself to some degree. I guess everyone does. When I was a child, I periodically had bizarre, confessional sessions in which I would dredge up every flaw, every sin, every unkind thought. I lived wrapped tightly in guilt, but after those sessions, I'd feel light and clean for a while. I thought about my actions, knowing I would eventually reveal the bad ones. So I often stopped myself from taking candy from the pantry without permission.

Mental illness seems to demand major self-censorship. I don't tell people about every hallucination--some are not interesting; some are frightening. I don't talk about suicidal ideation--why worry others? I don't share my intense connections with and reflections on music or movies.

I don't want to bore, scare, or offend anyone. So I try to keep it down, keep it clean, and make it funny or intriguing. I don't know how well I do with that.

Spotlight on Symptoms: Trance Writing.

What I call trance writing has been one of the more unsettling symptoms of mania for me. My brain seems to shut off, but my hands continue scribbling, typing, texting. The writing makes no sense and does not seem connected to anything. My journal shows some struggles with trance writing and my trying to pull out of it but tripping again into nonsense.

It's okay in my journal. It's even a little interesting. But it started to appear in my teaching life. I'd have to cut (literally cut from paper) out essay comments that made no sense. I think one was about directions to McDonalds. I missed some, and my students were bewildered.

That's when I started to realize that I was getting too sick to work. I seemed to have no control over it. I had to check back over everything I wrote. Stress may be a major cause; I've rarely trance written since I stopped working. I have stress now but nothing like I had before. My brain just can't process stress normally.

I love writing. But I like to know what I'm doing.

Spotlight on Symptoms: Music and Movement.

Music has always been able to change, enhance, or express my mood.

I remember being ten or so when my mom told me that my dad and I have the same experience with music. "You want to get inside it," she said. My dad and I have bonded over music for most of my life. I sang along in the car. He bought me the CD (showtunes) when I'd only saved enough for the tape. He played his keyboard for me. We've gone to many concerts.

Music may seep into my mind or knock me flat. I can become painful when I'm manic. I have musical collages in my mind. A playlist tells a story. I have a Spotify playlist can "This Thorn" (referencing the new testament's Paul and his unspecified suffering), which tells a mental illness story.

When I am even a little manic, I feel especially drawn to music. I sing and dance more. I have to keep moving, either in a cerebral or a physical way. My own music videos play out with colors and images. I usually want to listen to the music on my own--I don't want distraction, and I'm especially vulnerable to any criticism or teasing. Often, I'll wear headphones to keep everything in my head.

Some songs become jars in which I can store my feelings or experiences, so they don't torment me when I can't handle them.

I tend to walk, sometimes outside but mostly in the living room and kitchen, when I listen to music. I walked all over my parents' house when I lived there.

I remember wearing earbuds and pacing around my friend's dining room table when I was 13, trying to calm a crushing crush. Nobody really acted like it was strange. But then that friend, Hannah, did tend to be tuned into my moods.

I see music and pacing as symptom and treatment. If you see me pacing with music, I'm probably having a mood swing. It can hurt, but it usually helps. I navigate between songs that are too much and songs that are just right. But music can also become accompaniment to dark thoughts when depression closes in and I'm suspended between moods. Too much Evanescence, too much Air Supply, too much Sunset Boulevard.

I listen. I pace. The other noises in my mind (especially the voice that tells me I'm always doing something wrong) clear out or at least get quieter. The burns on my brain stop sizzling. Life might be livable. I keep moving. I keep listening.

Spotlight on Symptoms: Obsession.

I've always been obsessive. As a preteen, I spent hours listening to showtunes, planning plays (most of which never happened), and watching the same movies over and over. I did almost nothing in moderation. I went wild for Irish step dance. I had a semi-dark longing to be an actor. I lost my mind over Titanic. I had an intense Harriet the Spy phase.

I've sometimes tries to disconnect the wires of obsession, but I usually just trip over them and fall hard. When I'm full-blown manic, obsessions take on a sharp edge and can be maddening.

Phantom and Sunset Boulevard were two of my strongest obsessions. The music made me feel a kind of pain and a joy of internal freedom. It cracked me open.

Some other obsessions have included stickers, conjoined and parasitic twins, American Horror Story, swimming, water in all forms, certain celebrities (currently, Ben Platt), Fun Home, makeup (recurring!), Betsey Johnson necklaces, texting Bruce (a million times a day for years!), and simply being Bruce's friend (quite complicated and difficult for me until fairly recently).

I made full use of Google and YouTube for all this, pursuing hard. It can be both exhilarating and exhausting. It takes up a lot of time and sometimes money. I try to determine what is fine or good and what is unhealthy. Mania, even traces of it, creates energy that must latch onto something.

Right now, I'm obsessed with Dear Evan Hansen and anything related to it. Though I have been a little manic lately, this obsession mostly just asks for time. It makes me happy, so we're letting it be.

As I grew up, I tried to avoid past and new obsessions because they overwhelmed me. But I'm trying to be open again. So I try to surround myself with what is beautiful and healing in the hopes that my next obsession will be a positive one (even if it's weird).

The Race.

One recent night, I wrote this in my journal: "My thoughts are spinning something that will keep me warm or smother me."

Racing thoughts often feel that way--good and bad potential. They can seem exciting and beautiful like golden sparks the sun gives to the pond outside my apartment. But they can often burn my brain, and I don't know what to expect.

Memories, especially mortifying ones, mingle with what-ifs. Some thoughts are like fragments of nightmares...as thought I'm in a terrifying haunted house and must find my own way out. Until I find that way out, that self-destructive part of my mind keeps working against itself and scaring me.

But sometimes, racing thoughts can be warm and sparkling, delivering delightful possibilities--hypothetical journeys and visits, a lovely future for Oliver, brighter versions of sweet memories.

I'm thankful that racing thoughts are the only mania symptom I have right now. Sometimes, my imagination can create such beauty; my mind throws it at me all at once. I just need a better filing system.

Facing Madness.

"It is better to face madness with a plan than to sit still and let it take you in pieces."

--Josh Malerman, Bird Box

This quotation from an excellent novel caught my attention. Do I sit still? Do I have a plan? How many pieces of me has madness taken already?

I think madness stole a lot of joy and darkened my memory. This happened especially when I was a child or teen and knew nothing about what I was facing (or not facing). I sat still, listening to showtunes on repeat, hoping the feelings that shook me violently would eventually go away.

Of course, they didn't. They haven't--not for any major length of time.

How does one face madness? And with what? Long ago on my other blog, I wrote a post about "Tools from Father Christmas." I like the symbolism.

And the plan? My a.m./p.m. pill box is a simple planning tool. I plan to take my medication, day and night. I plan to stay close to and open with The Council (Josh, Mom, Bruce), avoiding isolation (which can lead to dangerous thoughts). I plan on making pen and paper ever-present, for more planning or just relief and contentment. I have books, always nearby, for the same reasons. I plan to use beauty to set traps for madness; it usually weakens quickly if I deal with it directly. I plan to check my worst thoughts against someone else's reality, gaining perspective. 

I tend to look away at scary moments. I have to make eye contact with what is trying to destroy me.