why depression sucks

I have made mention of the fact that despite having the bipolar diagnosis, I have been doing well in life. For the last six years or so, I’ve been very stable—experiencing very few bumps in the road. 

Ironically enough, though my blog is titled craziness uncensored, I have never actually sat down and wrote about why I call it that. And that got me to thinking that I have never actually written about what the bipolar disorder is. Let me clear that up.

Bipolar is a state where one’s mood can swing from mania to deep depression. It used to be referred to as manic depressive disorder (personally, I prefer this label because it defines the disease from the get-go.) So you fluctuate through this mood from mania to depression back and forth like a pendulum swinging from high to low to high to low.

As far as my experiences go with it, I’ve gone through the highest of highs (mania) and the lowest of lows (deep depression). The depression I’m writing about isn’t like a normal depression. It doesn’t really depend on what situation I’m in. It’s not about being upset, or discouraged or frustrated with life. 

To describe it so that it makes more sense, being deeply depressed is like carrying a ball and chain with me wherever I go. Whatever I do is made ten times more difficult. In fact, just getting out of bed every morning is a chore. Quite frankly, it sucks—like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. 

So can I be quite honest here? I used to love being manic. Mania felt so good, like I was on top of the world, invincible, and in the happiest of moods. But I’ve learned there’s a dark side to the mania. I know that when I’m manic, depression is just around the corner waiting to pounce—dragging me back into that all too familiar pit of despair.  

As I’ve written above, I have been very stable for the last six years. Very few extreme highs or lows. I credit that stability to being on the right “cocktail” of meds. 

But a couple of weeks ago, an unwelcome visitor arrived bringing with it all kinds of baggage. It punched me in the gut out of nowhere—depression. And when it set in, I began to worry. It had been so long since I’d felt this poorly. This bout of depression scared me. Just the thought of heading back down that road of deep despair made me want to weep.

So I went to see my psychiatrist and she upped one of my meds to “bump me out of my depression”. And boy, did it ever bump me up. For a couple of days, I felt great. Life was amazing. But all good things must come to an end, and the expected crash happened reminding me of why I hate my diagnosis. 

You see, these days I’m not looking for mania so much. No, now, I prefer stable. No high highs and no low lows—just middle of the road is all right by me. Simply put, I do not want to go back to pre-diagnosed days. It was hell. Honestly, I know no other way to describe it. 

In the end, I know I must trust the God who holds all of my days in his hand and wisely gives them one by one. I have to remember the promise that God’s power is made perfect in my weakness. And, quite frankly, I need to carry on the best I can waiting for the day when I will get back to the middle of the road.