I am Captor, I am Victim

my true tale of self-destruction, mania, & depression

   Perched elegantly on a park bench, I might appear normal; happy even. I gazed longingly at the menagerie of park-goers, as they talked and laughed freely. They were beacons of normalcy, and that disgusted me. I was repulsed at the sight of young mothers happily pushing designer strollers, clutching this seasons Prada or Chloe bags. I overheard a slender woman, roughly my age, drone on about her top notch nanny. My gaze shifted to a group of collegiate looking men , playing a game of rugby. How free they looked, how unshackled and lighthearted. A white haired couple, puttered past me,and cast me a smile. You see, I have been blessed by the genetic gods, and have become quite nonplussed by onlookers incessant stares. Its not that I don’t appreciate the narcissistic swell it provides, but because I know what lies beneath this perfectly svelte suit of flesh.   
      Behind the artfully painted features, beneath the smooth symphony of intricately woven lies, and beyond the lure of my come-hither eyes of deception , lies a monster.  I detest this morbid creature, yet I need her. I revel in my ability to transform, in a chameleon-esqe fashion into anything, or anyone I desire.  Yet I sit, seemingly peaceful, seemingly normal, to all passersby. Jealously washes over me, as I watch these humans simply enjoying a summer day, their worries, so trivial to me. At the moment, I worry if I will be able to fight this demon inside of me, to wear this mask of perfection, and remain stable.
       It was the summer of my 21st year of life, when I was finally diagnosed. My psychiatrist, a portly but kind old fellow struck me as particularly dumb. I despise ignorance. I despise Ignorance, you see, because I deem myself as unequivocally intelligent. I sat on the swivel chair and awaited his return, to deliver my fate. I was oddly calm, and I knew why. I was finally getting an identity. I was finally getting answers to why when I looked at someone, I was never truly looking at them, I was looking at them looking at me. In real time, I would study their countenance, and mirror their gestures. I would ( subconsciously) think , “ What is it that I want from this person, and what linguistics and seemingly visceral emotions can I portray?"  My right foot tapped inadvertently. I have always been fidgety.  There were times when my thoughts ran rampant, streaming throughout my ever churning mind. Ideas. Great ideas, or so I believed. I had such grandiose ideas, and no one to tell them to. I felt such an urge to talk, I felt like I would explode if the words didn’t flow out of me. And so, I talked to anyone who would listen. Cashiers at CVS, the mailman, police officers; oh police officers. I hated authority, but craved the attention from them. I loved seeing the gleam of the silver-toned badge, and loved what it meant even more.   The door swung open, and I looked up expectantly at Dr. Grant, searching, imploring, demanding answers. “ Angelica, you are an interesting case. You are what we call an atypical neurotic manic-depressive, with a little bit of narcissism and borderline personality disorders thrown in”, he spoke calmly. A bit too calmly for my liking, like he was ordering Chinese food.  I needed to be alone, to digest, to process these terms. Without so much a word, I got up and left. Most people would cry, would place blame, would say “why me” at such a diagnosis. I however, lay on the grass outside of my shrink’s office, and lit a cigarette. An odd combination of emotions surged within me. I felt grief, anger, liberation and satisfaction. . I am manic-depressive. I am SOMETHING. Although, I hadn’t been named miss America, or valedictorian of my class, I finally had a label.
     A thick film coated my once sparkling white teeth. My toothbrush lay , untouched for the 8th consecutive day. I lay in bed, on a Monday morning, unable to move. My mind told me to get up, to shower, to get to work, yet my weary body betrayed me. Everything required such a tremendous amount of energy. Even breathing had become laborious. I dragged myself out of bed, and stared at the mirror. Gone was the olive skinned, seductress. The once long luxurious chestnut tresses were now stringy and unkempt. The perfect silhouette, tiny waist and perky breasts were now blended together into one shapeless form. She was an old friend, and she had returned. Her name was Depression. When Depression hits me, it hits with a vengeance. Physically I repulse myself, and don only sweat pants and shapeless tunics, in “don’t notice” me morbid hues. My hygiene becomes disturbingly poor, and my apartment becomes a reflection of my mood. The floor of my bedroom becomes a patchwork quilt of designer clothes, worn by the Manic me. Designer jeans that wouldn’t fit my left thigh at this point lay discarded on the floor. become. The narcissist in me wont allow anyone to see me in such a disheveled condition. I become a recluse. I dine on take out, or anything in my cupboard. I anesthetize my pain and misery with alcohol, and junk food. I lay on my couch, in acceptance of my loathsome self.  The characters on television become my friends, and I know them well. I know their subtle idiosyncrasies like I would a dear friend, and scoff at their bad decisions. It aches to be alone, but it aches more not to.
        Psychotropic drugs are like air to me. Their purpose, is to return some semblance of order to my biologically unbalanced levels of the neurotransmitters serotonin and norepinephrine. My dresser looks like a well organized pharmacy. Atypical anti- psychotics, mood-stabilizers, anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication patiently await their daily debut.
Surely the antidote to my crazy mood swings, manic highs, and debilitating lows lies in these bottles.  This rainbow of pharmacology does not however, treat the thoughts that race throughout my brain. Masochistic thoughts. Thoughts that are layered so far beneath my subconscious, that I don’t even know I am thinking them. Until I act on impulse. Until my world convulses, and I enter Mania.  In lovely instances such as those, I’ve awoken in a jail cell, completely inebriated, or bought a 1500 dollar diamond ring for myself on credit, because I “deserved” it, or threw a steaming hot cup of tea at my innocent neighbor for looking at me wrong.  I self medicated with drugs and alcohol and became promiscuous with men. Looking in retrospect, I notice a pattern. Older men. Men that were my bosses. My high school computer teacher. Campus photographers. I took interest in men that were in a position of power over me, and were at least 10 years my senior. When my narcissistic inventory was running low, I could always count on the leering eye of a middle-aged gentleman to inflate the old ego. And inflate it did. Once fully stocked with narcissistic ammunition, it was off to the races, the manic races- where I always won.
     I encompass many skills, almost like a jack of all trades. Except, I am a master of all. I wish I were a cat, and could have 9 lives. Yes. I would do 9 different extraordinary things. I would write a best seller, I would be a Broadway actress, I would be a motivational-speaker, traveling with a message of hope to all the hopeless. Yet instead, I am reactive. Reactive to my disorder.  Whatever it wants, I must obey, for it has always been too powerful a force over me. Until I decided to take measures into my own hands.
     One day in Mid September 2 months into life with my diagnosis, I decided to become informed.  Manic-depressives are all or nothing, black or white; there is no half a*s. I studied my disorder with the same intensity a med-school student would his anatomy.  I stay up late at night hopped up on amphetamines and coffee, digesting every ounce of information I could about manic-depression. I felt like I were reading a story about my own life. I felt in control, comforted, and powerful. I remember many alcohol fueled sleepless nights,squinting at the glare of my laptop- in attempts to fill the never-ending need for information. I read nearly 15 books, cover to cover, on manic-depression. The terminology became familiar to me, somehow necessary for my survival.  Some claim knowledge is power. I have experienced the opposite. I became so educated and self-aware about my condition, that I questioned every choice, every action, every emotion depicted on my face. I became a robot, simply acting and reacting. The knowledge that I so craved, had told me that I was a monster.  That I am this being, that was incapable of any real emotion. So,for 21 years, I realized, I emulated others emotions. I acted in roles, and was not comfortable without one. The stark realization of this fact, hit me like a ton of bricks. My throat closed, and my world convulsed.  I remedied the situation by drinking myself into an oblivion. “ there! You say I’m  numb, devoid of feeling? Then I numb ill be!” I sobbed in defeat. I drank and cried, in tandem. My shiraz tasted vaguely of tears and disgust. For the first time, in a long time, I let myself feel genuine emotion. I mourned the loss of my real self, my “authentic self” as my therapist calls it. The next several months were a bit fuzzy. Amphetamine days, and Alcohol nights, I used to call them. I now understand why I liked the combination so much, as it mimicked manic-depression to a tee. Amphetamines mirrored the feelings of a Mania, while Alcohol, being a depressant, brought forth sadness and lethargy. However, I used these substances for one main reason, and that was not to get high. It was to Feel. To feel anything. Sadness, guilt, anger, joy. Anything.  Soon enough, addiction was added to my laundry list of diagnosis.
    I awoke in a small room, about the size of a common bathroom, hooked up to an IV , with electrodes on my chest. I had hoped to be air flown via helicopter to some elite hospital and maybe make it in the paper. The only black and white ink I received was on my hospital bracelet. Detox.  Slowly the memories of the night prior came rushing back. In my drunken mixed-state, half grief stricken, and half giddy, I dialed 911.  I was oddly comforted by flurry of white coats and scrubs poking and prodding me. It occurred to me, while a pleasant looking black nurse adjusted my electrodes, exposing my breasts to all that cared to see, that attention was all I craved. It made no difference if I were being scolded or praised, awarded or scorned. Attention was attention, and it fulfilled me either way. That was the narcissism speaking. Contrary to popular belief, narcissism does not describe a person with an overly inflated ego; but the contrary. Narcissism is actually a disorder that stems from extremely low self esteem, usually induced my environmental factors. Most narcissists are never diagnosed, because they will never admit they have a problem, for they have created new identities of grandeur and power. I no longer wanted to live a lie. I no longer desired to play a part, or to allow my lips ticked lips to lie without a flinch. I longed for reality, whatever that was.
      The childlike artwork that adorned the walls on the Dual Diagnosis unit
 (rehabilitation for substance abuse and psychiatric care) did little to brighten the sterile atmosphere. If anything, the artwork indicated the emotional instability of the units patients.  It reeked of incompetence and urine. For the time being, this was my reality. Great. The first few days were a blur , mostly due to the strong sedatives I was given.  I had been committed, against my will, following my stay in detox.  I sat through “group” a painstakingly long hour which entailed a slew of ridiculously medicated junkies and psychos babbling about their issues. When my turn came, I cleared my throat to speak with my usual authority, charisma and charm, but something stopped me. Sure,I could easily fool the head nurse that I was mentally sound, and that I didn’t belong here, but I felt an ache in my gut. That ache reaffirmed what I did not  want to admit,but needed to accept; that I needed to be here more than anyone in that room. With that, for the first time, I closed my eyes and spoke. I didn’t speak to hear my own voice, or to evoke a certain emotion, or to persuade someone to give me something I wanted. I spoke from my authentic self. My voice sounded meek, childlike, and timid. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it didn’t matter. I spoke truth, and the feeling was indescribable.
      The next 7 days of structured program passed slowly, but steadily. Between the daily medication lineup at the nurses station, carbohydrate filled meals, and groups, time marched on. I began opening up to the other patients, and listening altruistically for once. I was filled with hope, but deathly afraid to leave. I had found security, stability even, within these stark walls. Would I regress once left to my own devices? I would find out soon enough.
     To date, Its been 7 months, of sobriety for this gal. My journey has not been easy, but its value to me is priceless. I have not gone wildly manic and spent hundreds of dollars on unnecessary trinkets, nor have I faced a single gruesome bout of depression. I wake each day, partake in my ceremonial cocktail of psychotropic drugs ,and pray for the willingness to stay balanced. Just as a car requires maintenance to ensure top performance, I work daily to maintain my stability and sobriety. For my sobriety, I go to meetings at a fellowship for addicts. I  identify and learn from their experiences, and share my own. I see my psychiatrist regularly, and honestly report my symptoms and behavior. For my unhealthy thoughts, I confide in my therapist. Life is and never will be easy for me, but it is “real” , and that is all I’ve ever craved. I no longer cling to my diagnosis for my identity. I have my own identity. I am a 27 year old female, a survivor, a sister, a daughter, and a friend.  I am not cured, but in mood disorder remission, as I like to call it. I now know, that if I slack on any of these “maintenance repairs” a cycle of severe mania or depression lurks nearby. My victories are what keep me going, and keep me grounded. Anytime my world shakes , and everything begins moving to fast, I simply take a breath, say a prayer, and pause. I can proudly say, that today, when faced with that extreme attention seeking thought, I will not drown my sorrows in Chianti,  slander a friends reputation to make mine appear better or engage in sexual acts in order to boost my ego. When I feel out of control, I write.  I Furiously purge my irrational and outlandish ideas until my wrist aches. When I am finished, the impulse to act out has miraculously passed.
    Today, I’m sitting in a park, on a bench, with a good friend. I listen to her talk about her arduous work day, and feel genuine compassion.  A young couple strolls past us, hands interwoven, and smile at me. Without a moment’s hesitation, I genuinely smile back.

Reviews

[SkinlessFrank]

Wish my drugs worked as well.

[The Analog Kid]

This is amazingly deep. There is a lot to dig into here. I am not a great reviewer, but I do see some beautifully written prose. Maybe break up the paragraphs a bit for ease of reading:)

[Robin]

this is one helluva story , I can relate to in my own way

[Dark Beauty]

this is a wonderful piece to express personal happenings, your word choice was good at getting your message across, I really liked it and could relate to it so nice job!! Keep Writing