Eating Bread

After a night of partying, people stumble home and the damage control begins. Some swear by a big glass of water and two aspirin. Others eat bread with the idea that it acts like a sponge, absorbing all that alcohol. The more desperate sit over a toilet with two fingers down their throats, flushing away their night in an ode to the porcelain goddess.

The past few weeks, I feel like I've been eating bread like a desperate Somalian. There's always something to apologize for, whether it's saying too much when you're manic or not saying enough when you're depressed and essentially in hiding. I'm sure I've spent some time in that happy medium, but I haven't been there for months.

In my current state, I'm getting the worst of both worlds. Calling this disease bipolar is misleading because it implies that there are two definitive poles that people wobble to and fro like pong balls. Ping ping pong. You get the point.

But that's not really true. From what I've gathered from my bipolar buddies, mixed states are actually much more common than pure depressions or manias.

I think that's why one in five people with bipolar disorder commit suicide. Imagine an agitated, energetic, impulsive suicidal depression.

I'm in a bit of a mixed state myself. I'm motivated enough to let the irksome overachiever in me compel me to do work. I'm depressed enough to work and have zero energy for anything else. I'm agitated—my limbs are always twitching like I have Parkinson's because if I stop moving, this ball of angst builds up under my sternum and makes me want to vomit until my intestines are staring back at me. So yeah, twitching is much preferred. I'm anti-social, withdrawn, quiet, almost shy (which is out of character for me).

I keep thinking of the line from the Lord of the Rings movie when wormtongue complains about Aragorn bringing ill bearings and he uses the word malcontent.

That is my one word description of the day.

Malcontent.

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