Warning: Here’s the (kinda) darker stuff. It even includes a sad story about my cat. 

It’s sad when you worry about being tired. I came home and went to bed yesterday. A person shouldn’t worry about that, but I did. I was tired today too, but I think it’s just because I’ve been working so much. It’s been brutal at work.

When my depressive episode hit last year, I managed to appear normal enough to put myself together and get through the work day. I would then go home and go to bed. Every. Damn. Day. I didn’t want to do anything on the weekends. I just slept. Every now and then C. would be able to get me to go out with friends, but I could usually get out of it. I didn’t want to feel that way either. But I still flew under the radar. No one noticed. 

I get irritated when I see articles and things that talk about how exercise helps depression. You have to be able to be motivated enough to exercise in the first place. Fuckwads. I didn’t want to do anything – exercise, eat, talk to people. I think I lost 15 pounds. (Max. ever, I weigh 110.) Antidepressants are dangerous, and I don’t mean because they make me gain weight. They have the ability to tip a bipolar depressive toward a hypomanic/manic phase.

I’m awful about hiding these things. I hate reaching out, as I suppose a lot us are. As it is during my “normal periods”, I tend to isolate myself and communicate via text and social media. Sometimes there are subtle signs. I had a friend at Hopkins who could read them via my posts on Facebook. It was like my posts in aggregate or something were a sign. She didn’t really even know everything. She just knew something was up. Good intuition, I guess.

If you were wondering, there was a trigger. My cat died in November. Yes, you read that correctly. My cat, my best friend, of 14 years suddenly got sick with lymphoma. I watched her get sick over two weeks, and we had to put her to sleep. Our cats are the closest things we have to children. To be absolutely honest, I think that had a bigger impact on me than my mother’s death. There was less baggage with Evan’s death, because there was unconditional love, and she was a part of my daily routine. I also had to watch her suffer through her last few days. So from November 2015 until May 2016, I was in various phases of a depressive state, some more severe than others. Yes, some did include passive thoughts of suicide. I’m too afraid of screwing up to harbor active thoughts of suicide. (Although, that’s why my Dad took his gun back.)

Interestingly, one of the reasons for our remaining in the years of our stagnant relationship is the “kids.” Yes, we stayed together for them. I don’t want to take the job 4 hours away, not because of her, but because I will miss them. They have the ability to make me happy, and I know they do that for her too. Even if we aren’t together as a couple, we will be together as their co-parents. (How progressive, right?) We had just recently got another little girl in September.

I know the statistics. My fear is that someday, my disorder won’t be controlled, and I may one of those homeless people who has stopped taking their meds and has gone off the deep end. Is that a stretch? Maybe, but it isn’t impossible.

So when people make jokes about bipolar or claim to understand depression because they have had gotten upset or angsty about something, I want to fucking throat punch them.




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