It’s all coming back to me now

It is so strange how you can be okay for a while, enjoy life, live normally, and then, just when you breathe, overnight it all comes back. You’re crazy again, hurt again, suicidal again.

I must admit, even though I went back to an old, previously successful drug routine, I haven’t really stabilized out. How do I know this? Because when I am really stable, I don’t think about my mood every day, every hour, every minute. When I fully recover from a mood episode, I am horrified at myself, the monster that took over my body for a while. I think back to my meticulous suicide plans and all of the details and it is as frightening to me as if I had planned a murder. And how I acted. The shame, so much shame. Worse than being drunk in front of everyone, but similar in tone.

I didn’t get that far this time. I still don’t feel the horror. I still don’t really want my life back.

I am doing well at my new job. I am one-upping people with much more clinical experience than I have, in fields that are their specialties, not mine. I have made obscure diagnoses before anyone else raised the possibility, and been right on things when every expert thinks I’m wrong. I am again the shiningflamingscorching star I was apparently meant to be. It all comes so naturally. Other people are knocking themselves out to do half as well as I do.

And the big secret: I don’t really want it. That’s how the universe gets you.

It is strange and ironic and sad that in the cutthroat arena so many people would kill to do what I do, for the sprezzatura with which I do it, to be me. And all of this, all of it, all that I can do and all that I did do and all that I do means nothing to me.

I am not yet 30 years old. I am relatively at the start of my career, one that apparently, despite anything I do, has the auspices of being a brilliant career.

And yet, last night, awake and pacing and storming at 4 AM, hating everyone and everything and impatient and restless and full of animal fury, I couldn’t help thinking that it isn’t good for someone to be like me. I mean, it’s good for the world and the patients and the hospital and whatever. But for the person, to do it all and see it all so young, to be unstoppable, without struggle, to be where nothing impresses me at all, to have everything so easy and nothing to look forward to or work toward…to be empty and bored already. I would trade it all for a little happiness. Not big happiness, just the ordinary happiness that ordinary people have. Picnics without rain. Seeing kids playing and not seeing the years of tragedy that await them.

A few rough days and nights, a heat wave, exhaustion, the mood swings again, and I am back to wishing I weren’t alive. Moreover, I’m so restless and so very fucking angry that I can’t help thinking about jumping off buildings, a giant fuck you to the universe, for giving me everything except the ability to live with it. And for some quiet. To know that I will never, ever, have to do anything I don’t want to do again.

When every moment of every hour of every day consists of something you don’t want to do, and everything you see in the possible next ten years is more of the same, the relief inherent in this idea is considerable.

I lost my temper today. The reason was, at least on the surface, justifiable.
More work for me due to someone else’s doing less work. Unfortunately, I ended up taking it out on the messenger. And having to do more work for all these women who are pregnant and men whose wives are pregnant. I am considering starting to tell everyone that I am pregnant. It seems to be an all-purpose, unquestionable excuse for anything. But I’d never really be pregnant because I couldn’t possibly bring a child into the world.

People always ask me why, seem to think this is strange. Don’t they see? I don’t even want to be alive. It’s sort of like when people admire me. (No, I don’t think they like me much, but a lot of them in medicine admire me.) I mean, they see some stuff and think they’d like to be like me. No one ever seems to notice that I don’t even want to be like me.

This is self-indulgent and rambling, which I guess is fair enough, considering it’s the internet. Time for a fucking med change, methinks.

But before I get myself drugged into mediocrity, one question: why the fuck can’t I just get a little euphoric mania for once?



  1. I’d like to say something that would be comforting, or at least not contrite sounding, but the best I can come up with is this – mania isn’t all it’s cracked up to be either, but I can understand the longing for some kind of happiness. Being able to do things like smile at a sunset or laugh at a good joke – things normal people take for granted. It’s desirable to feel “good” once in awhile and not constantly feel like you’re living your own personal hell. I hope you’re able to find the right med-cocktail; I know that’s helped me immensely in my quest for a little happiness.

  2. First, I want to say thank you for choosing to be as transparent as you are. I know that sometimes as much as you hate saying what you express or feeling that way, it sometimes only seems to be the freeing thing to do! When did you find out there was something different going on with you? when did it hit you?and how were you diagnosed. I look forward to your response. Sincerely, precious

  3. Hi Precious. I don’t see a link to you, and I’m pretty sure you are a new commenter. In a lot of ways, this is the absolute only place I am truly transparent. I might write a separate post to answer your questions. It hit me when I was twelve, diagnosed at 22 or 23, and I only believed the diagnosis last year.

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