A few night's ago, something in me reared its head. It wanted to self-destruct, to undo all my hard work. "Stay up late," it said. "Have another beer. 3am isn't a bad bedtime."
Then She swooped in. "No," she bellowed. "Sleep! You know you'll feel better tomorrow if you take care of yourself tonight!"
The recklessness within didn't respond with gratitude. More of a giant, "fuck you for trying to be the boss of me."
I was mad at my healthy self for putting me to bed. I felt like I had to drag myself, kicking and screaming, away from the allure of late nights and substances and binge eating and binge watching TV.
She prevailed that night. Sometimes, though, I don't want her to. I want to be stupid and destructive and irresponsible. I feel like a rebellious teen.
I have always been a spoiled brat. I don't want to do what I'm told unless it happens to coincide with what I want. I was a naughty teenager, getting into trouble, drinking underage. If something was prohibited, I couldn't help but give in to the allure of doing what I shouldn't.
Was this the bipolar all along? It can be an indicator apparently. Maybe I was just a bad kid. Nothing changed for a long time. Even though I kept getting older, I wasn't growing up. Being an adult held no appeal to me, and mostly that's still true. Now that I'm medicated, I can suck it up and do the things I know need doing. I can get my chores done, be on time, be in bed by 10:30. When you're used to a 1am - 3am bedtime, this is remarkable progress. My husband doesn't have to pull teeth to get me to function like I'm 37. Well, not all the time.
She wants me to be a better human. To fight the urge to be bad, to battle the demon that whispers provocative propositions in my ear; that tempts me with forbidden fruit. Most of the time these days, She can talk some sense into me. On a rare occasion, I find myself sneaking into bed after 1am.
Hypomanic AF.
Sleep is so essential to my mental health. I can feel it right when I wake up if I haven't gotten enough. The whole day is an intense struggle. I trudge through my day, steeped in regret. Usually it only takes one night of stupid choices to get me back on track.
Sleeping all day to make up for last night's mistakes
It's weird to recognize the hypomania for what it is now. Stranger to have to evaluate it, to decide which shoulder angel to listen to. My husband tries to guide me down the right path, and sometimes he's successful. When he's not, he doesn't try to fight with me until I comply. He leaves me to my vices and devices, and probably knows I'll be a wreck the next day.
Hypomania hangovers are real, and on par with your average day after overindulgence. Despite them, I still give in to the pull of madness. I'm not sure if this will get better or worse with time. I feel like it's out of my control sometimes. When it is, better buckle up buttercup. It's gonna be a bumpy ride.
Hung. Over.
