The writer T.S. Eliot said that April is the cruelest month, but for me, November is far worse. There is something about November that brings out or up the crazy that can normally be dealt with most other months of the year. It's a special holiday crazy if you like. Honestly, I don't like it one bit, but My Beast of Mental Illness seems to revel in it.
Maybe it's the creeping darkness here in the northern part of North America where I live. Maybe it's the cold, wet, and snowy winds paired with the final descents of the autumn leaves. Maybe it's the chemical hailstorm that occurs every 5 to 6 months regardless of the seasons. Or maybe it's the lead up to the Christmas Season, and its pressure to feel happy, overjoyed even, about the origin story of a 2000-year-old religion turned national holiday of gluttony and selfishness. And don't forget Thanksgiving, Black Friday, Chanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, and a million other reasons to feel that material items will bring light into your darkness. But most likely it is a combination of all of those things in largely unequal measures.
And here I am, sitting in a knee-deep pile of November wondering what I hope to accomplish with the rest of my life.
November is the harbinger of endings, and there is something deeply unsettling about that for me as a person with Bipolar Disorder 1. My sleeping Beast of Mental Illness is awoken by my nightmares of purposelessness and potentially futile endeavors. And he pounces on this with full force and full ferocity. He is nothing if not consistent in his attempts at convincing me of my worthlessness. Within this time of self-reflection/self-loathing, there is ample material for him to sculpt and manipulate me. Creativity, though limited to an almost singular subject, is my Beast's strong suit. There are always new and inventive ways for me to experience existential angst with a side of paranoia and mania at no extra charge. Trust me, this guy is a pro.
November 2001, a mere 18 years ago, was the first time my Beast took the reins and I couldn't take them back. I experienced rapid-cycling, meaning mania followed by severe depression, as often as 4 times per hour. Every 15 minutes I would swing from believing I would be the next solution to all of the world's problems, to holding a pillow over my face while attempting to suffocate myself. I would reach highs that would've made meth addicts jealous. Then the lows that followed would've made those same meth addicts' crashes feel like tiny tumbles onto a cushy floor covered with cashmere.
I was officially diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder that year, and perhaps that's why I see November as the ending of me. Or at least as the ending of who I thought I was. November is the anniversary of the loss of my prior identity. At 26 years old I was suddenly someone who needed massive amounts of psychiatric drugs to go grocery shopping. I was no longer "creative," "eccentric," or "unique," rather, I was "sick," "crazy," or "insane." My Beast was no longer a worry in the back of my mind, but a full-blown reality in my frontal lobe.
I was dis-eased in every way possible. And each day was a battle for even a gram of wellness. Some mornings it felt like I'd lost a kilo of sanity the night before. With each increase in one of the medication dosages, I would feel worse for a while, then better, and then back to worse as my mind and body would adjust and adapt to the neurochemical dance. Most often I would sleep for untold hours, ironically wearing athletic clothes while I laid on my couch for days on end. I gained more than 110 kilograms (50 lbs) and saw my not quite manageable diabetes become unmanageable in almost every way.
Yet, I chose to keep going, fighting through my last semester of university, and even applying and being accepted into graduate school. I completed a 79 credit Master of Arts while taking 2000mg of Depakote and 60mg of Paxil every day for 5 years. I also became a parent of 2 sons and underwent Gender Identity Disorder therapy, medical treatments, and 2 surgeries. But that's another topic for another day.
So, where am I now, nearly 2 decades later? I'm not suffering through those original night terrors, but, yes it's often still a nightmare to try to exist in this space. My Beast and I have fallen all the way down since, and 7 years ago I finally received better treatment in an inpatient mental health facility. But, here's a small part of what my time now looks like:
Medications tweaked. Emotions addressed. Rollercoasters to ride and prayers that they end. Meltdowns that erupt. Apologies to be offered. Relationships to be repaired. Actions that attempt to make things better. Fear, anxiety, self-loathing, depression, and self-pity. Elation, exuberance, unrealistic expectations, mania, and unfounded superiority over others. And the never-ending battle for control between My Beast and myself.
It's an arduous task to attempt every day. And in all likelihood, it's even more so for everyone around me. I am regimented yet unpredictable. I am a loose cannon yet afraid of confrontation. I am the monster in the closet and yet I too am hiding under the covers of the bed.
I am living with My Beast, and others live with both of us. And each November we all find ourselves frustrated, afraid, angry, disappointed, joyous, optimistic, and secretly worried that this might be the last November we all have together. And in the end, that is the darkest part of this cruelest month, the knowledge that the light may not return. But after 18 Novembers that have come and gone, I have faith that number 19 will pass the same way, and we'll all still be here for another try.Thank you for choosing to live on and through this journey with me.
Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.
-Ari
