The QR8R

You can’t deny it but you can’t divide yourself at the core. 

Man. The last few months have been so gruellingly tough.

Mentally - TERRIFYING. Physically - EXHAUSTING.

I’ve had to go back to therapy and gear up for what most certainly feels like my second tryst with bipolar II disorder. When I got it the first time around I was straight up stumped (stunned, overwhelmed, bewildered, dumbfounded, confounded) at how ACTUAL mental illnesses were nothing like I romanticized them to be as a teenager. Back then, it was so easy to throw around phrases like ‘I’m depressed’ or words like bipolar and schizo to convey what I was feeling. But ACTUALLY clinically having it? Ummm. Nope. Not happening. ENTIRELY. DIFFERENT. ORDEAL.

It first surfaced like a shark fin when I was around 26. Whatever I was going through and feeling then was so discombobulating and disturbing I somehow had the presence of mind, and luckily, the means to get into therapy. I say luckily because I have no idea how people who suffer from the same (or worse) illnesses or inflictions and don’t have access to that kind of help instantly, get through it. And trust me, help in these cases sometimes, has to be INSTANT. With the help of a fantastic therapist (the brilliant Dr. Kersi Chavda, since so many of you have inquired about where to get help), the right medicines and (clichéd) CBT techniques I fundamentally realized that there was literally no point being stuck in this cyclic quagmire of the same anxieties, worries and stress triggers that kept repeating over and over and over again. I realized that no good came out of any of it and it was being nothing but counterproductive. Whatever it was, that had consumed my mind and life for those four years, abruptly tapered off by the time I was 30. Like that one friend at a party who sneakily leaves without telling anyone they’re leaving and you only find out wayyy later that they’ve left. Those four years are a blur. I remember where I was working. I have a general idea of what I was doing in life. But mentally? Just one big haze. A giant blotch on what would have otherwise been a linear life. Those 4 years are long gone. And even though I fully lived them, I’ll always feel like I just took a step back and suddenly viewed my life in third person and watched my life go by me in some sort of nightmarish amnesic daze.

This time around, all the symptoms are exactly the same. But this time around the flame burns brighter. I’m using brighter, instead of its superlative - brightest, because I’m coming to terms with the fact that even if I fight this all over again and emerge from it, it will always be something that will intermittently keep coming back at assorted points in my life at different intensities. But NOW is not the time to think or worry about that.

The last few months have been harrowing. I’ve had some of the strongest panic attacks. Most, when I was alone. Some, while I was actually happy or in a situation where I wasn’t expecting to be suddenly crippled by whatever the fuck panic attacks are. There have been bouts of unwarranted crying and a few dangerous episodes of manic depression. These downers were sometimes followed by confusing bursts of ecstatic happiness and sudden spikes in energy. These could strongly veer into some random emotion like nostalgia about how simple and uncomplicated life used to be as a child. And then quickly shift gears to extreme panic about what the future holds. Then maybe a drastic U-turn into how my past could’ve been different. Any of these episodes could sometimes last for a few weeks and if life’s forgiving – just a few days. In psychological terms, I believe this is something called a bipolar rapid cycle. These cycles are so abrupt and leave me so delusional and drained, they can entirely fuck up the way I function as a human being. Menial tasks like showering, getting out of bed, sleeping on time, keeping my room clean can seem so incredibly difficult. I’m not even going to talk about how difficult it can be to work optimally, write copy, meet deadlines, make it for and sit through pointless meetings. And if you live in a city like Bombay, you know you can't afford the luxury to just drop everything and wallow and cry for 4 days straight. (I sometimes do wish it was socially acceptable for humans to look at the moon and howl though. I genuinely think it would help and would do it all the time.) In real life, you basically just suck it up and do what you’ve got to do to pay the bills. You feed your cat. You feed your fucking child. You dream of taking care of your family the way they took care of you. Maybe that’s what people who can’t afford or don't have therapy as an option, do. They soldier on. Maybe they don’t even acknowledge or label their disorders and problems to begin with. Or they just don’t have the time to fucking feel any of it. Maybe that works. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe that’s how they get blood pressure or strokes or one day their heart just gives up. Maybe I feel too much. Maybe I feel too little. I’m rambling.

Ideally, this post is the perfect example of the kind of thing I would spend the time to write and entirely delete it or not post it at all because I genuinely don’t think anybody cares any more. I know I don’t. I know people love to say they do. And some genuinely really do. But this is not about you. Or me. It is about that person who feels so cornered and alone in their room that for a flash of a second they entirely forget to keep fighting. They entirely forget that there are people who care about them. They forget they are loved. They forget their existence alone adds so much value to people and things around them. But in that one 'second' it gets so murky and unbearably excruciating to just exist, that it is easy to forget these things. And that’s the ‘second’ to look out for. If you relate to or feel what I’m saying, always keep an eye on that ‘second’. And when you see it, gather support and love from wherever you can scavenge it. If you're really lucky you'll reach a point where you won't have to look for it externally. I vaguely remember reading about this survey where a huge group of people who survived a suicide attempt were asked what kind of thoughts they had in their last moments as they were falling mid-air or bleeding profusely and some 90% of them answered that they all felt they had made a big mistake in that ‘second’. The remaining 10% just had it bad. Really bad.

I started writing this because I am living the polar opposite of that ‘second’ right now. After months of extreme internal turmoil and agitation, I have somehow found myself on the other end of this spectrum.

I am sitting on a beautiful porch in Goa. The rain is heavy, relentless and the drops are not only my favourite size but also falling in perfect time. (#GapDream) . A million greens and trees and plants and vines are all I can see in every direction I look. An adorable dog I’ve recently befriended is sitting beside me and has joined me in staring aimlessly into this space. And magically, this song, that was a favourite not so long ago, starts playing and I realize I just need to type something. Anything. I’ve been whining to my shrink a lot in therapy about how this is the worst writer’s block I’ve had in years. I’ve been finding it extremely difficult to put the intangible (because pretty much everything we truly feel and wish to convey is) and even tangible things into words. Hell, I’m even having a tough time crafting basic replies to texts and emails recently. And he, like the every other Google result, or great quotes on writer’s blocks by great writers, told me the most clichéd (but real) advice there is to give in this case:

Just sit in front of a piece of paper and write.

Or type.

Tove Styrke - On the Low (Lyric Video)