I thought I knew all there was to know about bipolar disorder, or "manic depression," as it used to be called. My birth father admitted to it, but only as an excuse for severe abuse. (That's for another post.) My favorite nephew was Dx'd with it fairly young, seeing as how it's not usually diagnosed in juveniles. The worst abusive partner I escaped from had it, as did the love of my life, tho she was Dx'd toward the end of our relationship. And the last partner I had has a pretty tough case to treat with meds.

 I thought I knew SO much about how it works and what the meds are and the signs of mania and depression. I'd been around it most of my life.

 Then, about three years ago, I received my own Dx--bipolar disorder with mixed episodes. Depression with rage. Insomnia and restlessness with suicidal ideations. This was not the depression I've had all my life. Something has changed. And I don't like it. Not one little bit.

I found out I really didn't know much at all. At least, not from the inside. I'd only been an outside observer. A close, intimate one, to be sure, but still an outsider.

 I have been humbled by the experience of living inside bipolar disorder. The dizzying amount of symptoms. The way the disorder can "mature" and change over time.

 I no longer have mixed episodes. The mania has split off into an entity of its own. And, where I've seen manic people clean their house 'til it's spotless, or go running for miles, that's not the kind of mania I experience. (Who knew there were kinds and levels of mania?) My current mania involves feeling as if there is an electrical current running through my body, aggravating me on a cellular level. There is no gathering of this energy to be able to do something useful. On the contrary, I find it hard to walk or even think straight. And it comes with insomnia where my body requires only two to three hours of sleep.

That lasts until, after four or five days, I suddenly just sleep one night and wake to find myself depressed. Even the depression is different than that I've had all my life. This grey veil of apathy lies between me, laying in bed, and everything else. I mean everything else--whether or not I eat, the bills that are due, the phone ringing, whether or not I shower. But I do use some of my old tools in my handy toolbox that I've picked up through the years of depression. I lift myself up a bit with some affirmations or prayer or by fighting the natural isolation, but it's not long before I swing right back down where I was, or deeper.

 So I swing in my depression, and flip back and forth between it and mania, while I isolate during both. And this "episode" has lasted for five months now, thru med changes and all.

 I'm hoping this last med change works, because we're running out of options. Except maybe a visit to my BFF in FL so I can't isolate. And, yes, he has it too.

It's happened again. A phrase--a few simple words--dropped in place
and triggered a cohesive reaction in my thoughts. I've been feeling it
coming. There have been hints of it in blogs I read, on Twitter, in
daily readings and e-mail and even snail mail. Lighting the Inner
Fire. Awakening the Warrior Within. Humanity's Team. A World Atlas. Is
There Life "Out There." My "Shattered Mirror" blog. Little nudges, all
of them.

Then the final nudge that started this deluge of
coherent thoughts came in the form of "a tiny grain of sand." (Credits
to @LightCoaching on Twitter for the phrase.) She was explaining that
the part of us that's actually solid in our whole "bodies" is like "a
grain of sand" in a castle. The rest of "us" is pure, vibrating
energy. (Well, that's how I heard it anyway. There've been SO
many thoughts since then.)

And then this cascade of
thoughts started, linking together some--a lot--of the bits
and pieces of science and spirituality that I've...(cont'd)

...picked up along my Path (and detours) the whole of my life. How,
when heat's applied to substances, reactions occur, burning off gasses
and creating new substances.And, if each of us is almost all
vibrating energies as a grain of sand to a castle, how much bigger,
then, are our Souls? Humongous! That vibrating energies at
different levels of vibrations produce different sounds and colors
(and who knows what else in the dimensions of which we are generally
unaware). And when colors are mixed, new colors are created; when
sounds are mixed, new sounds are created. That's how art can sound
like a symphony when I see it, and a Rachmanninoff piano concerto
looks like colorful abstract art when I close my eyes. That we only
distingjish the physicality of our bodies when we use a microscope.
What, then, do we "look" like without it, from a larger perspective?
If we are all vibrating color and sound, how do we distinguish where
"I" stop and "you" start? That heated grains of sand can make...
(cont'd)

...glass--utterly transparent yet reflective of colors when it
vibrates.

It's not done, yet. In fact, the thoughts
continue even as I type. (Rather manic feeling, actually.) But I
know they're not "my" thoughts to keep, but consist of Truths
meant to be shared--transparently. Probably in a whole new blog
altogether. (Which I've "co-incident-ly" just learned how to do.) And
I'm loving it. I LOVE words, and wordplay. And I'm SO grateful
for the fact that it's all happening because of (you guessed it) a
tiny grain of sand.

Somewhere in me, there's a rule set up--by my having bipolar and being on meds, I guess--that I'm "not supposed to feel too much." As I was journaling this morning, I felt it--this grey veil of apathy--clamping down on everything. It didn't matter whether it was anger, or depressive thoughts, or manic ego.

 It's been there, I recognize now, for months. I'm not sure if it was there five months ago at the beginning of this bipolar "episode," or if it developed shortly after. Whenever, this morning I couldn't stop it. Maybe it's a self-preservation tool. I know that, with all the flipping from mania to depression and back, I've not wanted to get so depressed as to find myself on the path to suicidal ideations again. Nor have I wanted to go on manic spending sprees, or make ego-maniacal plans I can't follow-thru, or have fits of uncontrollable rage. And that's not possible because of this veil of apathy.

 The problem is I can't get excited about anything, either. Like wanting to live.

I had to run for groceries, and had a hot flush at the cash register, got upset about how much money I'd laid out for so little, and stopped at the Shell to pick up cigs.

 I barely saw the man on the way in, tho he'd tried to flag me down, my mind on getting the groceries home before they melted. I bought a carton, grumbling at the price, and the cashier gave me the name of a discount menthol that's not supposed to be TOO bad, that would save me $15.00 a carton.

 When I went back to my car, there he was, waiting for me. I don't know why I get approached so often by men carrying a beer in one hand and the other waiting for a handout. I was playing a guessing game: would it be the usual cig, or bus fare home because he was stranded, or something unique for a change?

 Wow. This one shuffled the open Mickey's and the bag carrying more, and a cane, while the other reached out to shake my hand. "Excuse me, Ma'am. My name is Edwin Carter, and I served our country for 15 years... (cont'd)

"... the last tour in Iraq as a Navy Seal." As he spoke, his spine straightened and he shook my hand in a strong but gentle grip. He was pulling his hand away when I tightened my grip, looked him straight in the eye, saying "Thank you, Sir, for serving our country. What can I help you with?" He was startled, and his eyes widened in surprise.

 For me, it was a kind of test, because some of the homeless have learned that saying they were in Iraq gets a better response. But I can tell the difference when I see their reaction. Those that have served usually ARE surprised, and one man's eyes even welled up with tears. The fakers don't even pause, just continuing on with their schpiel. I'm thinking it's that "Honor" stuff they teach in the military.

 Mr. Carter asked if I had a cigarette I could spare, when I'd just tossed a carton on the seat. As I reached across to my open pack, something made me change my mind, and instead I opened the carton and gave him a full pack. Then I ... (cont'd)