Untitled – Nov 2nd
In recent weeks, I’ve been struggling with a mood episode. There was a whole week and a half where I was not sleeping, when I was waking up at 3am every morning and unable to get back to sleep. But I had so much energy that I didn’t need sleep. In that period, I was so productive. I was killing it at work. I was inspired to write again, which is why I was posting all of those Substack and blog posts.
Then the crash came, as it always inevitably does after a hypomanic episode. Up to now, I’m struggling with my sleep. I don’t want to get up in the mornings. I’m sleeping in, way beyond what I should be. My body is heavy. I’m a step slower than I usually am. I should be getting in trouble, but I hide it quite well. I struggle, but this is life with bipolar. I am thankful for every day that I wake up and continue to live despite it all.
This past weekend, the Toronto Blue Jays played game 7 of the World Series. One game to win it all. The team was made up of a bunch of players who were playing in the minor leagues up till recently. They should have never been stars playing on the biggest stage. But it was a bunch of guys who loved each other and loved playing with each other. The joy that they exuded everyday in October, playing for each other, playing for Toronto, playing for Canada. Up against Goliath — a team worth hundreds of millions of dollars and with arguably the best baseball player to have ever played the game. I tried explaining to Rebecca last week about the power of narrative in sport. Heroes and villains. The power of friendship vs. corporate domination. Perhaps it was destiny that brought these two teams to game 7 of the World Series. An Oscar-winning screenplay writer couldn’t have written up a better story.
In the end, it came down to extra innings, errant home runs from the Dodgers, and the Jays’ bats unable to close it out. The cruelest of losses. But you have to wake up the next day and the great world continues to spin. The sun shines again.
It is both a blessing and a cruel joke that after heartbreak and loss, a new day will begin again and you have to find a way to keep going.
Today, I read Hanif Abdurraqib’s essay “In Defense of Despair,” in which Hanif recounts his experience with suicide and hope and continuing despite it all. One passage speaks to me:
“Yes, I did not want to get out of bed this morning, but there was one single long shard of sunlight that stumbled in through a tear in my curtains, and the warmth of it hitting my arm got me to that first hour of living. There was my dog, who, on the mornings I do not want to get out of bed, will rest silently at my feet and wait for me to slowly emerge from under the covers, and seeing her reminds me that I do, in fact, have only one lifetime in which I can love this animal. As far as I know, we will love each other only here, for a while, and that is worth seeing what I can make out of a few hours, even when I’m wrecked with despair.”
(It reminds me of Virtute’s plea in The Weakerthans’ song, the story of a cat who sees her human struggling with depression. She knows that “You sleep as much as I do now and you don’t eat much of anything.” She tries to comfort him and advises him: “Lick the sorrow from your skin. Scratch the terror and begin to believe you’re strong.” But most of all, she ends the song proclaiming: “I know you’re strong.”)
No, I have not been great recently. It is a struggle to wake up in the mornings and overcome the heaviness of the day before me. I know that this my sickness weighing me down, keeping me from getting up. I never asked for this. But some mornings, Rebecca leaves the bedroom door open and either Lily or Monty — or sometimes both — walk in and jump on the bed and they lay at my feet, waiting. Seeking warmth and affection, our gentle but emotionally needy Monty will curl up next to me and start napping. Sometimes, our chaos princess Lily comes right up to my face and meows, beckoning me to wake up. Sometimes she’ll walk all over me, knock around some books, swipe at the mirrors and it’ll annoy me beyond all belief and I’ll want to kick her out of the room. (Like John K. Samson’s cat Virtute, it’s as if they’re saying: Wake up. I know you’re strong.) or (“Lick the sorrow from your skin. Scratch the terror and begin to believe you’re strong.”)
They’ll never know the human struggle of facing a new day after heartbreak. They’ll never understand the cruelty of a game 7 loss nor do they care about living with bipolar. They don’t understand that waking up means continuing to live despite it all. But they love me and want to be next to me and want to spend time with me and honestly, that’s quite lovely. I am thankful for that love and I am thankful for every day that I wake up and continue to live despite it all.