I'm certain I used that title before, but, you know. Fuck off. (insert brilliant grin)
I had four days of obvious hypomania -- jacked-up happy mood, pacing, racing thoughts, social-butterfly-ness. I think Monday's open mic brought it on: high excitement = high stress = unstable mood. But I rode the wave through a kitchen reorganization complete with cabinet painting, some house cleaning, a lot of writing, and a remarkably healthy attitude toward food (why oh why is that a symptom for me? NO FAIR).
But! Some things were different.
First, I saw it for what it was. I knew I was hypomanic. And I didn't make any bad decisions -- just a lot of tweets -- and I used that energy to get things done. I didn't yell at the kids and I didn't get irritable, and I didn't make any ridiculous plans or commitments.
And I knew the crash was in the mail.
On Friday morning I woke up and the first thing I said was "OH GOD I'M SO FAT!" Which is pretty much my tell, as far as mood crash goes. I spent the day roiling with self-hate which I moderated by seeing it as something outside myself, a symptom just as much as the high mood. I still felt like an ass for the way I'd been acting; I still hated the sight of my stupid ugly fucking face in the mirror. I was sure everyone close to me should just leave, they'd be better off, god, what a vortex of shame and neediness I was and everyone should run fast and far from this broken pathetic loser, save yourselves, folks.
It didn't climb on top of me, this mood. It didn't sit on my chest and suffocate me. It just obscured things for a while.
Twenty-four hours later, that angry black fog was gone. I felt...normal. Sort of...medium.
That was dull, I know. More a record for myself of a little victory.