A sad truth has come to light while I’ve been waiting for the best parts of me to reappear. The recovery is coming along more smoothly now, and I’m feeling more and more like my old self. Myself before all the years-long manic/depressive episodes. But I’m still waiting for the funny, energetic, engaging, and optimistic person to emerge from the wreckage of those episodes.
It’s been months and she hasn’t shown up. It’s starting to dawn on me that the happiest, “best” version of me wasn’t happy, but was manic. I realize I’m probably remembering things as better than they were. But the fact remains that a lifestyle of treatment and medication management means I’ll never feel like I’m touching the stars again.
I won’t have the intensity I’ve always had. My projects and writings don’t make me feel like a tortured artist the way they did during deep depressions and god-like highs. They just feel like hobbies. My favorite mood music doesn’t invoke the same depth of emotions, now it’s simply enjoyable. I’m not relying on random bursts of energy to get through to-do lists anymore.
Now I have to get motivated intellectually. This is uncharted territory for me. What is a lifestyle of consistency and standing on steady ground? And why do I feel powerless to thrive within it? Maybe I’m trying to adapt too fast and I haven’t given myself enough time to adjust. Just because I’m not sick doesn’t mean I’m well. Perhaps this is some kind of purgatory no one warned me about because they didn’t know.
I’ve never been educated on the psychological backlash from going from chronic illness to good health. The unknown is still the unknown. And I’m registering it as a possible threat in my lizard brain. I hope I can maintain treatment without relapsing. I guess time will tell.