I moved into a new flat two weeks ago and I’d made a promise to pack away the remainder of my wardrobe – just one more box. But I was consumed by a story I was working on, and as the day grew long, I remained hunched over my computer, pecking away at my thoughts.
At around 5pm, a sense of guilt forced me to pack in the literary focus and literally get unpacking. But I thought I’d have a bath first. Before I got to run the bath water, I noticed the basin cabinet still a bit dusty. I spent a good half hour cleaning, arranging and re-organising its contents.
Finally in an organising mood, I get cracking on packing my clothes away. Piles of clothes lie scattered across the bed. Only I understand the structure in the chaos. Then my computer winks at me….. just write one more thing, it says, it’ll only take a minute.
So I am lured back to sit in a little spot I’ve carved out in amongst the mess of wrinkled clothes. It’s 9:10pm and I haven’t finished anything I set out to do. I’ve done an awful lot, but not quite exactly what I was supposed to do.
Hypomania is whispering “keep going, you still have plenty of time. The night belongs to you, Baby!” While The Voice of Reason dictates “its well past your bedtime, young lady. Remember the importance of your bedtime routine”.
I acknowledge the voice of reason…but I’ll just quickly wash the dishes. And then have one last ciggie. And then another one last, last ciggie. This could go on forever, but I muster up some self-restraint and climb into bed. It’s 1:30am. Between Hypomania and The Voice of Reason, I’d call it a truce.
Who would have thought in the midst of withdrawal, I would become hypomanic? As body and mind clash through detox, it would appear my chemical constitution remains loyal to bipolar and its cycles.