Always When Things Get Good

Warning: Rated MA (LV, for crude language and violence)



Bipolar... One son of a bitch of an illness. Or more like a smart ass illness. It always makes certain to keep me reeled in by reminding me over and over about the mania highs, the wealth of empathy and compassion it provides me, the unique perspectives I have because of it... Do I have Stockholm Syndrome? Yeah, it feels like my bipolar has held me hostage for all this time, and to survive, I fell in love with it. Stockholm Syndrome. It holds a gun to my head and I beg it not to leave.

Right as that perfect moment comes up where things are feeling like they're all good, it pops up. Depression. Often, it creeps up slowly, building itself up more and more, but sometimes it's stealthy and it hits before you have time to react. By the time you realise what's happening, it's already too late. Over and over, the word, "Fuck!" rings in my head, as though a resonating voice in a very long, echoing tunnel. I'm a very reactive person. Every time something happens, I react, and the better or worse the thing is, the more strongly I react. I suppose it's normal when phrased so simply, but the nature of the reaction is more complex than that.

Mixed states. Often considered the worst of the worst moods for bipolar, they can wreak all kinds of havoc and are typically even more unstable in nature than mania. Most bipolar suicides occur during such states, as they both have the mania for the energy (mostly negative energy, though), and the depression to push the suicidality. Most often, when people are suicidal but don't actually attempt to commit suicide, it's because they don't have the energy to do it, not because they consciously decided to resist. People are given euthanasia in some countries for less than this sort of thing, and the suicidal simply take the burden of giving euthanasia to themselves, rather than having someone else do it. I have had suicidal ideation, we're old pals, but I've never truly been suicidal. Suicidal ideation simply means dwelling on the subject, not necessarily wishing to do it. I've always been able to find at least one good reason to stay alive, and that's more than some people. Many other people are so hopeless that they can't even come up with one. Keep them alive and let them suffer, or let them die and be buried in peace... An ages old dilemma.

When I get into a dysphoric mania like this, I have this... built up energy like shaking up a champagne bottle corked and full of champagne. Sometimes, the cork just can't hold, and it pops. I also get racing thoughts that are constantly morphing and changing like the winds around a fighter jet going at Mach 3. It's turbulent and the smallest deviation from its heading can cause significant changes in the aerodynamics. One tiny mistake can send that fighter jet rocketing into the ground and exploding into a million pieces; at least it'd be a grand display. I feel creative and yet blocked, inspired yet depressed, restless yet lethargic... Sometimes, I just feel like ripping my own arms off and beating myself with them, not that I even know how I could possibly do that; how would one beat themselves with their own arms when they have no arms to hold the arms? Sometimes, I feel like twisting my neck so far that it just snaps and bye-bye world. Sometimes, I feel like peeling the entirety of my skin off, exposing all the muscle and bone beneath it. Sometimes, I feel like running as fast as I can into a cinder block wall, ramming my head as hard as I can into it, and then just living with the result.

When I put names to my problems, I become way too fricken aware - hyper-vigilant - of all the little things that make up that issue. It consumes me, and it can sometimes feel like my only purpose in life is to monitor my illnesses and creating stats. "I have no other purpose; I just tally the problems!" Good things feel toxic to me. Sometimes, it seems like I'm deathly allergic to good things, so I avoid them whenever I can. Bad things, however, seem to be the antidote and vaccine, but I have to get it regularly to keep the good at bay. Wouldn't want that pesky goodness to kill me, after all. Chaos is me and I am chaos. I want to get high by getting off the drugs. I want to let my mind run wild and crank out all that it can until it overheats and explodes through my ears and eye sockets, a moment later annihilating my skull into a powder cloud of bone fragments, nothing but a poor, ripped up torso and legs to commemorate me. I want to walk into that Starry Night and to walk on moonbeams. I want the world to become a painting and become a beautiful stroke of red across the canvas in blue.

"Do you want to be an exceptional mind and be dead?" said the psychiatrist on Black Box. She's saying that someone on a self-destructive warpath to annihilate themselves may be exceptional and unique, but they also end up very dead very early. I find the answer to that question a little difficult to find. Sometimes, I think I'd rather drown in the sea of my disease than let it become a barren desert. I've often thought, for years and years, that drowning would be my ideal death... It would be peaceful and quiet at the end with a wonderful view (I would want to drown facing belly up somewhere that isn't so dark nothing can be seen, perhaps like the open ocean on a starry night.) Yes, there would be an instinctive struggle in the beginning, but then the calm approaches and you're slowly lulled to sleep.

Things have gotten good in my life. Can you tell?

Asperger's? Empathy?

My grandma was actually the first to say she thought I had Asperger's. I pretty much immediately said that I didn't, though I admitted that I shared some similarities. Well, about a year later, I started to think more and more about those similarities that may not be just similarities. On the show, Parenthood, a kid named Max has Asperger's, and many sources say that the portrayal is exceptionally accurate. I could relate tremendously to Max, and yet I know that my own experiences and how I've handled things in life are quite a bit different. However, Max seems to be on the somewhat more severe side of the Asperger's spectrum, which may yet still be on the mild side of the autism spectrum. Max is the key reason why I thought I had similarities, yet did not have Asperger's.

Later on in the series, the character Hank - a successful photographer who has fumbled all his relationships with people his entire life - reads a book about Asperger's to try to get to understand Max; however, in reading that book, Hank instead learns a lot about himself: that he probably has Asperger's. Hank is rather laid back, seems quite normal in most respects, and yet has a lot of difficulty in social circumstances. You wouldn't look at him and just think right off the bat, "Yep, he's autistic." Perhaps you'd think he's artistic, being a great photographer and all, but not autistic. He proceeds to see Max's therapist who specialises in Asperger's to try to understand himself further and why he keeps screwing up his relationships with everyone he knows.

It is Ray Romano's portrayal of Hank that made me start to realise that I may, in fact, have Asperger's. My nurse practitioner, who is for all intents and purposes my psychiatrist, has long said that she sees many qualities in me that you would find on the autism spectrum. When I told her that I was finally starting to think that I may actually have Asperger's, all she really said was, "Yep." Seems she knew all along, but never came right out and said it. Maybe she knew that I was gradually getting closer and closer to that realisation, and just let it come to fruition naturally. I can't say how many times I've listed this quality or that which "is like Asperger's," without giving having Asperger's the credit that's due. I haven't done any official tests - just those online ones to give me a ballpark estimate - but my NP sure seems to think I have it. She also thinks I'm schizoaffective, which is on the schizophrenia spectrum, and the Asperger's and schizophrenia spectra both overlap genetically and symptomatically. Seems all my problems are linked from just a couple genes.

Besides probably having Asperger's, I'm also a wildly uncontrolled empath. Being super empathetic has both its benefits and downfalls, as you can understand other's feelings, yet by taking on at least a portion of that same emotional toll, for better or worse. I've also heard that those on the autism spectrum have a whole lot of empathy, but don't especially have the social skills to be there for the person they are empathetic towards. Often, seeing that their actions often just cause distress, they instead distance themselves from the situation whenever they see someone in pain of one sort or another. I've found that those with Asperger's frequently have immense, unimaginable difficulty and frustration trying to understand others... something I found so ironic about the apparent abundance of empathy.

One of the quotes from the character, Max, is: "I try do understand them, but I can't... Asperger's is supposed to make me smart... but if I'm smart, why... Why don't I get why they're laughing at me?" A clip of that exact scene can be found here: www.hulu.com/watch/611376 Well, empathy is supposedly what makes a person able to, "step into someone else's shoes," so to speak. I ask myself, then, why is it that I have all this empathy, all this understanding of the trials and tribulations of another, yet don't understand people? I can sense and feel the emotions of others, yet I don't even know how to take a compliment, let alone properly engage in any sort of social interaction. I suppose I certainly do have my good times, and I tend to communicate quite well in writing, but the simple face-to-faces, I struggle with. I become more and more shut in and distanced from people who are or were physically in my life because I unwittingly, as well as unwillingly, push them away.

I don't understand people, nor what they expect or even will accept from me. I don't understand social constructs, rituals, and the like. I struggle with the very... abstract and fickle nature of etiquette, politeness, sociology, and society itself. A number of times that seems uncountable, I've been asked some pretty basic questions about myself, as well as what I think of others in one way or another. For years and years, I've really struggled with the answers. For instance, being asked, "How do you feel today?" I often joke or say something veiled by sarcasm, trying to evade the question. To be honest, I can't put many things about how I feel or how I think others view into words. When I do sound more serious, it's usually from memorisation of what I should say, because I can't come up with an answer on the spot. Most of my limited social skills are from trying to mimic others. I rather subconsciously observe others and how they act in various situations and try to emulate that to appear normal. However, because I do use mere mimicry, I often find myself employing what I've seen others do in the wrong circumstances or times.

I know that a lot of this seems pretty standard human behavior and confusion. To be honest, I'm extremely afraid to say that I am, or have, something that I'm actually not. I feel like taking such titles without properly earning them brings shame upon myself for some sort of offence against those who have earned it. It probably sounds silly, but it's true. I have found that some people find my long list of issues and labels is absurd and somehow reflects badly upon my character. But the way that I view labels is very literal: they are a method employed to more easily realise what you're dealing with without having to know each individual quality or characteristic as an individual. You can group things together and know them as a body, a whole of some sort. Labels are organisational and intended to make understanding things easier because they aren't so scattered. It's always harder to find what you're looking for when there is nothing but chaos. I can put all those little pieces of my issues into boxes, and then label each box so that I know what I'm looking at and where to find it.

Asperger's... That feels like a big title to take on. Am I deserving? Is it not my place to say I have Asperger's? Some things have just... begun to sink in, I suppose. Of course, there's a whole lot I need to figure out for and about myself. Asperger's just may be one more thing to add to the list.