I struggled against it. I know how it ends; the depression fights to be its equal, and they battle inside me, driving me to a fever pitch of tears and hysteria. It always ends the same way, an epic crash and burn that leaves me raw. I wake up the next morning feeling like I've not only fallen off the wagon, but tried to jump in front of it and it's run me over. Brain hangover. I can't function, I loaf around the house until I can go to sleep again. It renders me utterly useless. And yet, it's so tempting to give in to it. The promise of that kind of heightened arousal is too easy to say yes to. It's as if I have amnesia and don't remember how it ended the last time. And I always end up skipping my meds out of defiance, making it even worse.
The next-day exhaustion is bone deep and impossible to shake. Everything seems too loud, too bright, but I feel numb at the same time. I oscillate between feeling brain dead to being completely overwhelmed by everything. Why don't I learn from these moments? I know why. Once the hypomania starts to set in, there's no convincing me that it won't be different this time, that it won't be worth it. It's like having that friend who always gets you to do stupid shit. They have such an energy about them that you say yes to all their ideas, no matter how over the top they seem.
One time - one - my husband was able to talk me out of a full on break down. He told me it was my brain, and I didn't have to listen to it, and I should come to bed. And I did. The next day though? The mental hangover was still there. I guess there's no escaping that once the the momentum of the hypomania gets going, once it mixes with depression. I never come away unscathed.
And that someone is always me.
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