First, let me say that my official diagnosis is schizoaffective bipolar type. This means I have psychosis outside of manic or depressed episodes. Sometimes it’s hard to describe the hallucinations. But I often see dark faces and creatures moving through my vision. Sometimes it’s as simple as faintly hearing a radio that doesn’t exist. I have delusions about how I’m special and destined to find the messiah. I think I’m the angel Michael, born to help humanity find their way back to God. These delusions persist when I’m medicated. I don’t tend to act on them, but they are there. I have been known to withdraw or neglect basic self-care. When I take the right medications, whatever that means, I have far fewer episodes of psychosis. 

Between mania, depression, psychosis, and medication, life is difficult for me. Psychotic mania is essentially kissing everything goodbye. At the very least, it’s a reset on life; at the very worst, it’s prison and death. I don’t ever want to fuck with mania again. But I think with my illness, it will happen again, so I need to take precautions to lessen the effects. Hypomania is much more subtle in my life, and the medications control it well. It still happens, and when it does, I do too much, and the medication fatigue is real. And often depression follows. Depression is not as easily assuaged by medication. A big part of that is because the risk of a manic episode is so high that I can’t risk it by taking antidepressants. Depression is often apathy for me. I just don’t give a fuck. Sometimes it takes me to dark places where I hate myself. Or feel very sorry for myself. I also think I get mixed episodes of depression and mania. During these, I have dark thoughts coupled with energy. Finally medication. Oh meds. I have a love-hate relationship with meds. I know I need them to function, to stay alive, but FUCK them. I’m morbidly obese from the meds. My balance is off. I get very fatigued. I told myself I would put a bullet in my head if I ever got over 300 pounds. Now I’m 295. I’m not going to kill myself, but sometimes that seems easier than this struggle. Taking the meds is difficult, too. There are a fistful, and if I forget, then I’m risking a manic episode. 

The weekly grind is so much. I have peer groups, therapy, psychiatric, and part-time work. And fishing, unfortunately, comes last.  Finding a balance between work, personal life, and recovery is difficult. It gets even more difficult if my routine is off. It’s hard to maintain a routine. Life is easier for me when I have a set schedule and stick to it, but sometimes it gets to be a drag. I want to veer off it and just fuck off. But that has dangerous consequences. Unfortunately, I still fall off the beam. My therapist tells me to do fun things, because it’s important for the balance of life. But it’s hard to find the time and energy. My life is a conundrum because my delusions tell me I’m destined for greatness, while my life says you can’t even shower regularly or work a full-time job. 

Life’s hard, wah wah. Poor Bryan. I need to find some grit. I need to buck up. I’m cut from hardy stock. I need to get on with my life. Love myself, my family, my fellowship, my friends, and God.