Never underestimate the power of bipolar depression

A relatively low dip brought me to my knees at work yesterday morning and—aside from a brief rally at dinner last night—I've been sound asleep for more than 24 hours. Full shutdown notwithstanding, this is actually progress; as little as six months ago, my shutdowns lasted around five days. This episode, however, comes with flashes of deep, excruciating pain from my right hip to my right foot. Diagnosis still TBD.

Here ends my boring medical update. To thank you for your time, I leave you with the conversation I dread having with my trainer:

I'm really tired of the tummy my bipolar meds gave me

REALLY tired of it. Cutting back on pop and sugar and fatty foods hasn't changed it. Taking HydroxyCut hasn't changed it. Adding a brutal abs workout to the end of every workout hasn't changed it. So I just hired a trainer. We meet for the first time in 10 minutes. And she's a girl. A girl covered in tattoos and piercings and filled with the kind of badassery I need to whip my midsection - and everything else - into badass shape. And I can't wait to get my ass kicked by a girl!

Pro tip:

Never clip your nails when you're jittery from your bipolar meds.

My shrink just put me on an 8th bipolar med that by far has the prettiest name

Introducing Latuda, a sassy girl with a heart of gold who just may end up being my drag name. I can't decide if she should have a last name—Latuda Pillpopper? Latuda Justment?—or just have an iconic single name like Cher or Jake.

Thank you

As anyone who spends more than a few seconds on social media every month probably knows, I'm bipolar. As probably nobody knows, my bipolar depression got so acute and so scary that I spent the week of Christmas in a psych ward. It was there that I decided I needed to move home to Iowa to help take care of my dad—who has lost his sight to macular degeneration—and where my family could take care of me. It was also where I told myself if I really did move to Iowa I'd get involved in the theater again. Now fast-forward four months. I've already done one show, and tonight marks the point where I am for the first time in my life doing two shows simultaneously. I start rehearsals for A Chorus Line tonight and I open Barefoot in the Park this Friday. Plus I have a kick-ass job. Plus my meds are working so well I forget what it's like to be manic until my increasingly rare manic waves hit me. And I honestly can't remember the last depressive episode I had. (Then again, huge chunks of my manic episodes are a blur too. Which is both a blessing and a curse of being bipolar.) I owe A LOT to so many friends and family members and social-media acquaintances who have believed in me and given me encouraging words and friendly hellos—and parts in theatrical productions—and I don't even know how to begin showing my gratitude. Which is a lot to say for a professional writer who usually can't shut up. So I'm showing my gratitude by living my life and enjoying what it brings to me and believing in myself even when I don't really believe in myself. I love my family, I love my friends and I love my life. And I send an epic thank you to everyone who's helped get me here.

I'm thankful to be home and cozy and safe ...

after a 300-mile adventure today with snow and sleet and beautiful hoarfrost and huge trucks barreling down the highway and stops to see my ex and pick up the last of my crap that had been lingering in Chicago and buy some shoes and celebrate the staying-awake properties of my new meds (yay, lithium!) and all the while sharing the day with both my parents, who remain my stalwart supporters and I'm so grateful for them.

Not to belabor the fact that *I Have Bipolar Disorder* ...

but my depressive crashes are usually marked by an odd compulsion to grunt repeatedly like a damn circus freak. Usually I produce just a simple beat—it's not catchy and you can't even dance to it—but sometimes I get caught up in an endless cycle of some snippet of a song, making my grunting doubly embarrassing. Or at least frustrating. The songs can come from anywhere—usually they're show tunes, natch—but tonight I can't get that damn dum da-DUM baseline from the theme to CSI out of my head … or out of my grunt cycle. 

Bipolar disorder is NOT for the weak. Or the unrhythmic.

I'm thankful for family and friends who believe in me fiercely, even when I don't

I'm thankful for new opportunities to participate and stretch and thrive. I'm thankful for productive dance rehearsals and honest sweats and meds that seem to work better each day and 5 Hour Energy when they need a boost. I'm thankful my mom cries when I have a good day and my dad hugs me freely, which we never seemed to do enough in the past. I'm thankful I have a safety net in my family when so many others with illnesses like bipolar depression don't. And right now I'm this close to being thankful for a deep deep sleep after an awesome day.

New week.

 New outlook. No endless depressive episode. Epic amounts of weekend sleep. 

It's go time!

BIPOLAR FUN!

Yesterday I was depressed to the point of despondency. Today I'm manic off my ASS. My mind is racing and I'm talking faster than a deranged auctioneer. Let's order a pizza! Don't you love pants? What's your favorite color? Squirrel!