ALL THE KING'S HORSES - (BIPOLAR) PART V

It had only been two days since our trip to Christen’s doctor.  She’d had to scrape herself off the couch just to take a shower and get dressed.  Now she was manic.  I wanted to squeeze back out that front door and never look back.  I wasn’t sure I could deal with this.  It was bad enough when I thought she’d lay on the couch until her skin grew to it, but this?  She looked so small under her comforter.  That, I could handle.  Suddenly I found myself feeling intimidated by her, even a little scared.  What if she does something dangerous and I need to stop her?  Would I be able to?  Does she have so much adrenaline pump-ing through her that she’s stronger than normal? My mind raced on. 

I topped off my coffee and asked Christen if she would come sit in the living room for just a few minutes, and help me under-stand how she was feeling this morning.  From the initial look on her face, it was evident that my perplexity was as unexpect-ed to her, as her behavior had been to me.  It seemed, momen-tarily at least, to snap her out of hyper-drive long enough to talk, though I noticed the physical inactivity slightly increased the tremor in her right hand. 

When my feet first hit the floor that morning, I’d planned to sip a hot cup of coffee and sift through my notes, maybe even begin typing.  I thought having the house to myself for a few hours while Christen lay emotionally comatose on the sofa would provide the perfect opportunity.  Sitting here listening to Christen, I realized how much I took for granted, like the
simplicity of waking up with a plan.  In dealing with being bipolar, apparently little things like that aren’t quite so little 
to Christen.    

In the few days prior to this episode, I’d noticed Christen getting an uncharacteristic sharpness in her tone, and an undeniable irritability she didn’t even try to filter.  I’ve known her a long time, this isn’t behavior you would have ever convinced me I’d see from her.  But there it was. Occasionally, even directed at me.   

While Christen was talking, I recalled having jotted a note to myself that the increase in irritability might be an indication
of a change in Christen's cycles.  I knew she had been trying to keep track of all these subtleties, wanting to understand her own disorder as well as provide helpful information for me.  There were so many crossover symptoms, but we ulti-mately concluded there had to be a connection between the increase in her irritability and her ebbing toward mania.

It was obvious how exhausted Christen was.  She'd spent the better part of two hours sharing her experiences with being manic.  Tears and more tears.  Christen needed to lie down, even if she couldn't sleep.

Before heading to her room, Christen walked over to her desk and removed a stack of spiral notebooks from the lower left hand drawer.  “Here”,  she said.  “I’ve been debating on whether or not to give these to you.  They’re journals I’ve
been keeping for the last two years.  All this talking is really starting to get to me.  Maybe it would be better if you just read these.  I’m not saying I won’t talk anymore, it’s just that my ears have been ringing and noise of any kind sounds like it’s turned up 1000 times.  I can hardly stand it.  I’m very aware that everything is over magnified for me right now.  Things that wouldn’t normally bother me are making me furious.  I think I just need to pull back for a few days.  I’m supposed to adjust my antidepressant when I feel mania coming on,  but sometimes the back and forth really screws with me.  It’s nothing personal, I just need you to leave me alone for a few days.  I seem to have adjusted the antidepres-sant too much and triggered some hyper-mania.  I’ll have to lower the antidepressant, which means I could drop back into depression.  Welcome to my life.”

With that, she disappeared into her room and closed the door.  I sat on the couch and began to read what varied between the chaotic to very dark writings by Christen.  She'd catalogued her experiences over the last couple of years.  Some ramblings were too bizarre to follow.  I found myself reading over them two or three times to piece together her scattered thoughts, wondering what medication must she have been on when she wrote.  

It would take weeks to sift through Christen’s journals, but I was thrilled to have them.  My eyelids grew heavy, along with my heart, as I read page after page of her life uncensored.  A picture began to form in my mind, an image of my dear friend shattered into countless pieces.  Like Humpty-Dumpty, I won-dered if she would ever be whole again.


Join us next week for Part VI of Christen's Story