The following is indicative of a mixed mood. These are not necessarily my exact thoughts when I’m thinking more clearly.
It’s days like today when I’d like to punch anyone in the face who says I’m not crazy. I’m crazy. I’m CRAY-ZEE. I know you can’t see it, but if you were in my brain right now, it would be crystal clear to you. I’m feeling so crazy, in fact, that I suspect another person would think they were psychotic if they had to deal with the brain I currently have. I know this is not psychosis, though. I know this is a brutal, unfair, horrific bipolar mixed mood.
Hiding a Crazy Mixed Mood
I’ve written before about what a mixed mood feels like. Mixed moods are hell. Mixed moods are crazy. Most people with bipolar disorder will tell you they are the worst type of mood. You take the worst of depression and the worst of mania (or hypomania), and you shove them with spikes into your brain. Then your sanity is flung around like a rag doll. That’s a mixed mood. It feels like I’ve been forced into a centrifuge, and now I’m being ripped apart molecule by molecule. And as I kneel on my couch, desperately trying to keep bits of me from flinging off into space, one thing becomes clear: you’d never know this was the case if I didn’t tell you.
Stop Telling Me I’m Not Crazy — I’ve Been Crazy for Years
I have dealt with some kind of mood issue since I was a kid. It wasn’t severe back then — it didn’t get severe until I was 19 — but I’m very practiced at being crazy. Or, to be more specific, I’ve practiced, practiced, and practiced, blending in with everyone else. I’ve practiced fitting in with the humans for years.
I know; people with mental illness are “just like everyone else.” I know. Only we’re not. We’re very, very not. We live in altered states of consciousness. We live in states of consciousness with which you have no experience and can’t understand. You don’t know what it is to watch your brain go absolutely bonkers and know there is nothing you can do about it. This is your crazy brain. (This is often your brain off drugs, ironically.)
I’m Crazy; I’m Not Human — That Is What a Bipolar Mixed Mood Is About
So, it’s understandable that I feel like an alien. At times, I even think I look like an alien. The big, glaring, in-your-face secret, though, is that I don’t act like an alien. Somehow, I manage to keep my insanity on a leash the vast majority of the time. I am not the person that goes incoherently screaming, naked down the street. I am not the person who starts fights over the last hotdog at 7-Eleven, so the police have to get called. I am not even the person that lashes out irrationally at the driver who drops off my Amazon packages. I am not that person. I am the person trying to keep my molecules from flinging off into space by wrapping her arms around herself and sitting very, very still. If you were to walk into my apartment, I would smile and say hello. “Move along. Nothing crazy to see here, folks.”
Somehow I can do this. Somehow I can manage it. But it doesn’t make the spikes any less pointy, and it doesn’t make me any less crazy. It just means I’m much better at disguises than the average person. And, to be clear, I’m not alone. Crazy people are all around you, trying desperately not to let their masks slip while at work, picking up the kids from daycare, or grocery shopping for melons. It is hideously painful and cements a divide between us and the human race.
I hate it.
I Feel Alone with the Crazy Bipolar Mixed Mood
There are very real reasons why I feel alone, no matter what. The reason is the big, obvious, neon-sign-laden secret — I am alone because no one else can be inside my insanity with me. And I suppose I wouldn’t want them to anyway. I wouldn’t damn anyone else to live in my brain. I wouldn’t damn anyone else to live in my life.
So, the thing to do? Write it out in a semi-incomprehensible screed, and then take medication, obviously (mostly up-to-date list). It’s what has to be done to calm down. It’s what has to be done so that the crazy doesn’t actually overtake me completely to the point where there is no me left. It’s what has to be done so that the crazy doesn’t actually kill me.
There will be weeping. There will be suffering. There will be worse things before this is over. And yet, still, my priority will be blending in with the humans any time I have to interact with another. I suppose this priority is just after the one that keeps me alive, but only just.
I feel like screaming. I feel like sobbing. I feel like attacking. But I won’t do any of that, no matter how crazy I feel.
I should get a fucking medal for all the hiding, for all the protecting you from my crazy. A key to the city. An Academy Award. Existing in my brain is, by far, the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done it alone, and I’ve done it in front of everyone without them knowing it. And the torture of this existence just carries on. But it’s only 40 more years, maybe.
But don’t tell me I’m not crazy. My brain has nary a drop of sanity left.
Love this. I managed to keep my charade going for 51 years before I was diagnosed. I mean I had a fair track record of depression and anxiety, but the bipolar part was only noted in 2021; although my only bipolar friend (who I had met in a mental health clinic) used the very British phrase of “No shit Sherlock” when I told her. Guess it takes one to know one. I downloaded your book from Amazon last week and am really looking forward to reading it. Was planning on reading it in bed but the Quetiapine has a tendency to knock me out before I get around to it. Might read it on my tablet on the train into work to see how many people look over my shoulder :-)
I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder earlier this year.
I feel as though you’ve somehow entered my mind and have perfectly described exactly how I feel. When I’m struggling like this, it’s hard to explain to my partner how I’m feeling because I can’t seem to come up with the words (which sometimes makes me feel more crazy).
But, it’s comforting to know that I’m not alone in this, because it can definitely feel incredibly isolating at times.
Hi Stephanie,
Welcome to the club. I know it’s one no one wants to be a part of, but we’re all here nonetheless.
I understand your comment, as I get it all the time. Trust me, I wasn’t in your head, but I was in mine, and people with bipolar disorder all have similarities. That’s what makes us a club.
You may want to check out my book. I think you would find it very helpful: https://bit.ly/book_lost_marbles
Thanks for popping by.
— Natasha Tracy
I’m glad that for you the word is simply a suitable description of how you feel and therefore one which I feel you are perfectly entitled to use. I truly wish you had never actually had the experience of needing to use it.
It is a very disturbing emotion I think frantic and restless are other words that feel similar, I just want my mind to switch off and let me rest, but the crazy thing is it just will not stop stiring up a torrent of emotions. I hate that feeling, the very word can often make me cringe maybe that’s why we can be sensitive about it’s use. It strikes too close to home.
I have mixed emotions about the word, depending on my mood, if I’m feeling fragile it’s too close to home, a term of abuse which could be flung at me in an argument leaving me powerless and wounded. Other better days it’s just a word used to indicate a lighthearted chaotic comedy situation, nothing personal.
When we hit a period of feeling “normal” everyday boring ordinary, not dealing with crushing depression or other nasty symptoms life is so much easier and happier. I feel amazed when I suddenly become aware I feel contented, productive and can have optimistic thoughts, if only I could take it for granted, I count my blessings for everyday I live free of the symptons and wish all my fellow bipolar people many many days of freedom.
Ah… the mask. I’m currently wearing it so we’ll, I’ve convinced myself (currently in the midst of a situational personal crisis shit storm) that I’m stable.
in general, i make an effort not to appear publicly crazy. perhaps it’s a male thing, but when i’m manic (and, unfortunately, drinking alcohol) people are almost instantly afraid. i’m pretty sure the scary aspect is the appearance of my eyes, which, of course, i can’t control.
in younger, wilder days i found it thrilling to be mistaken for a tough guy. i’ve had a few adventures shooting pool in biker bars, scaring some very scary people. however, i’ve often attempted to have polite conversations in corporate offices which end with my boss yelling, security! security! (not a good thing, that.)
if a young person is reading this: bipolar life tends to get better the longer you stay alive. i haven’t been scary high in decades, nor desolately low, either. getting old sucks, but you do learn how to muddle through somehow.