I haven’t really had the wherewithal to blog about anything at all recently. My motto was ‘keep on keeping on’, which is a logical incentive to beat the rush of anxiety that has gotten the better of me. That approach has proven ridiculous. You cannot outrun the anxiety monster because you are the anxiety monster. And I’ve steadily come to the realisation that whatever my strategies are, and however stubborn my intention is to defeat this unruly freight train, I cannot do it on my own. I wander around waiting for the moment the wave of suffocation to hit: I have to run; I have to escape; I have to escape running. It makes no sense whatsoever. It is precisely because it makes no sense that I cannot articulate what the problem is when the monster takes over.

There are flashpoints and I recognise that these are obvious triggers: feelings of inadequacy when faced with circumstances that remind me of past failings; the sense that I haven’t done enough with the time I’ve had; the certainty that something horrible is about to happen, even when I haven’t the foggiest what this impending doom might be; a room that suddenly seems completely terrifying for no apparent reason. The alarms go off and that is it. Up I get. Off I go. Or if I can’t get out of the space, I disintegrate. This then triggers a cascade of discordant and further unintelligible panic. I feel untethered and cast adrift in a sea of terrors. I am unleashed and continue to splinter off from my head: I am Rubini’s ‘Beheaded lady’. I’m over here, my head is over there and we have temporarily parted company.

Now, I know that is a common symptom of bipolar disorder. For me, it is the primary warning sign of an incoming mixed episode. I can feel that subterranean feeling that heralds the descent. I wander whether the anxiety is my mind’s rudimentary attempt at protecting me from full-blown depression. I cannot stand another round in the ring with that opponent again; my reserves are exhausted and I am uncertain whether I can muster any resilience at all to fight. One possibility is that I submit and hope that I can surf along the sadness until it either gets so bad that I defer myself entirely to someone else’s care, or somehow I can push along with it by distracting myself with work or my portfolio, or talking to my cats as they are excellent conversationalists and are very wise. I have learnt that all things can be solved by jumping up on the coffee table or sitting on the television remotes until I get what I want. I might stand outside and miaow for no reason at 4am other that I just want a cuddle (because I can). It seems to work for them!

What works for now? Diazepam. Propranolol doesn’t seem to stick at all. It prevents my heart from zooming out of control, but this doesn’t stop the terror because this is primarily what it is – primal and unbridled terror. I have legitimate worries, which I won’t go into as that isn’t the purpose of this piece or my blogs in general, and these obviously play a part, but not as much as you’d imagine. Strangely, I feel a strange disconnect between my physical health and my mental health. Something that would throw people off completely has left me perturbed, but not terrified. I worry about the medical appointments because of the not knowing, but not as much as one might expect. This is quite bizarre as the ‘not knowing’ is possibly at the core of the overwhelming anxiety, but it’s a different ‘not knowing’ because it’s the not knowing about the ‘not knowing’; it’s a ‘not knowing’ about things and spaces, and times and colours, and lights and sounds. Clearly, this is a serious problem because it interferes with every aspect of functioning (or lack thereof).

My first solution was to throw myself headfirst into my artwork. I haven’t been able to really do any of it due to my tremor, but getting to grips with drawing programs on my iPad has taken away some of the frustration (whatever I do wrong can be whisked away at the flick of a finger, so no one will ever know that I drew something utterly shit). Then again, focusing on creating art for ten days without cease has left me equally frazzled and now I feel like a totally inadequate person for not dedicating every hour to it, or when I produce something I really hate I hate myself. Then I panic and derail because I don’t think I should be describing myself as an artist at all and that this is all some misguided sham. I cannot, cannot stop doing it because I feel like the world might end if I grind to a halt.

I’ve had the same conversation three times now about this and it always ends with my saying “I don’t know!” What does help? As I said before, diazepam, but I shouldn’t rely on this. I most especially do not want to become dependent on any drug. I take my prescribed medication as directed and dutifully. In the past, I have been a bit cavalier about taking medication and have railed against having to take anything at all. But those days are long gone: I take my lithium, lamotrigine and aripiprazole (and the PRNs); I take my allergy and asthma inhalers; I take my statins; I take my zopiclone to ensure I sleep. I rarely drink at all now. I try to keep sociable hours, but that is quite difficult for me as I’m not working at the moment and time seems quite unruly and fluid. I’m not great at eating. I attend therapy. I keep my appointments with my psychiatrist. I see my GP regularly. I pretend a lot. I pretend that I’m gardening when I am actually pacing and hacking at trees because I HAVE TO. I look productive. I watch television intently, but I’m not paying any attention at all. I create conversations to fill the chaotic vortex that is going on inside me. All this so I can seem like a personable and normal individual.

I suppose the only point to this post is to give voice to the ‘I don’t know’ because it needs its forum. The forum is my head and maybe, maybe, if I give it some virtual wriggle room it might wriggle enough to stop tearing me apart…

[If there are any typos, I can’t be bothered to proofread for them!]