I've not been sleeping.
It's a problem that comes around every so often. Life with bipolar disorder brings about a regiment of regular disregularity. Sleep habits fall into this category. I do what I can to foster good sleep habits. I go to bed at the same time each night. Follow the same routine as I crawl into bed. But there are some nights that sleep just doesn't come.
Mania is an odd and uncomfortable time for me. Many people who experience life with bipolar disorder actually like their manic phases. In comparison to the depressive phases, it is a blissful time. There is a lot of energy, productivity abounds, and often you can feel invincible. And while I get certain aspects of this, there is an underlying discomfort to mania for me.
I'm not quite sure how to explain it to someone who has never experienced a mood swing. The best I can come up with is to talk about it in metaphor. I tend to think of it like riding a roller coaster or going skydiving. Mania, like these thrilling excursions, can seem exciting. Like the wind racing past your face, it can feel like a rush. But it's not sustainable. The track eventually circles back and the ride ends. The ground comes increasingly closer until the parachute is deployed and you come crashing down to earth with a thud.
That's how I've often described coming out of mania. "Crashing." If you'll pardon the mixing of metaphor, imagine a car racing along the highway at break-neck speed. It's thrilling, it's exhilarating, it's exciting beyond belief. Then suddenly the car stops. Not because the driver hit the brakes, but because the driver hit a wall.
That's what mania feels like. It's unstable at best. It will not last, and so despite how good I feel in the moment, I have a lurking sense of dread just below the surface at all times. My anxiety ramps up unbidden, fearing the inevitable crash into the wall of depression.
Mania and depression. Two sides of the same coin. One the high of productivity. The other the low of emptiness. And somewhere between it all there is a baseline. An even-keeled and level-headed space from which I love to operate. That is where I feel most safe.
I don't like the rush of mania, and I don't like the stinging pain of depression. I do like my baseline. What does this mean? That I don't like two-thirds of my existence? That the person I am two-thirds of the time is uncomfortable for me? I'm not sleeping, which means I'm doing a lot of thinking. And this has been the crux of my thoughts.
Who am I?
Am I spunky and outgoing? Am I sarcastic and quick-witted? Am I fun and full of laughter? Am I productive and a good worker? Am I manic?
Or am I quiet and reserved? Am I introspective and a deep thinker? Am I sad and lonely? Am I slothful and show a lack of initiative? Am I depressed?
Or am I this middle ground? When am I most truly myself?
For years I've been contemplating the question of what it means to be human. I've allowed that question to be academic in nature, never letting it touch the reality of my existence. But now, I can no longer think of that question objectively. I'm no longer asking in a broad sense what it means to be human. I am, instead, asking very specifically what it means to be Kaitlyn.
My friends and I at the convent have a running existential joke that "nothing is real" and "everything is a construct." It is a joke that elicits peals of laughter each time we tell it. It has made me start wondering, though, about "realness" despite the laughter and teasing surrounding those lines. And in the twilight hours as I lay down and do not sleep, I consider the "realness" of Kaitlyn. I wonder what is true and real about me. Is it the mania? Is it the depression? Is it the baseline?
I'm not sure I have a great answer to these questions. Somehow, however, I am coming to believe a new paradox of my existence. What is real about me? Well, simply put, it is very real that I experience life with bipolar disorder. That is a reality that I've learned to accept (most days). But I am also coming to realize that I am more than that disease. I am more than my manic rushes. I am more than my depressive crashes. I am even more than my level-headed baseline.
There is something real and true about who I am as a person that can't be described through the lens of disease. Because I wasn't made for disease. I was made for wholeness and goodness and beauty. I was made in the very image of the Divine. And so, despite my inability to describe it, I know there is something that is real about me, about my essence.
I'm not sure about a lot of things. But one thing I do know is that God loves me. Even when I can't figure out what being "me" means, God is still there saying I am worthy. I don't understand it, and perhaps I never will. But I am thankful for the realness of love.
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