Mad Woman

Recently, the show Mad Men has become a bit of unhealthy obsession of mine.

I just love the glamour of it, and I love the name: Mad Men.

I am also taking this PSY 394 class at ASU called Media Madness: Mental Illnesses portrayed in film and literature. Perfect for me right, a crazy bipolar writer who loves reading. But it's got me thinking about how our society looks at those with mental illnesses. How people perceive those with a mental illness has incapable of doing things that ordinary people do. They think that we are always living on the edge--that we are dangerous, or criminals, or drug addicts. And while the mentally ill do have a tendency to get themselves in trouble (guilty) or do a lot of drugs (guilty) or drink a lot of alcohol (guilty) and sometimes I get really crazy and try to punch my boyfriend... so I guess you could call that dangerous. I also have something that those ordinary people don't-- I can't explain it. But I can feel it--swirling around in head, I can feel it through my fingers whether I'm furiously typing or writing. I can also feel it in my wrists when they become sore because I've been clenching the pencil for too long, let's call it writer's cramp. 

I like the way Edgar Allan Poe says it:

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest of intelligence--whether much that is glorious--whether all that is profound--does not spring from disease of thought--from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things, which escape those who dream only by night.

And he's right. He's absolutely, completely right. This disease, bipolar, that some may say I was cursed with, is actually a bittersweet blessing.

Last night I had a glass of wine with a longtime friend. One who, every time I had mentioned my bipolar, had dismissed it. She has known me for 4 years now and I had never been on medication. I was known as her (and everyone else's) crazy friend. I was the one who wanted to go out drinking every night, who was always chatty, always expressing my love, always running a million miles an hour. Except for when I was depressed, whom very few people saw. Now, I am medicated. I am calm, I can finish my sentences before starting new ones, I stopped fighting with my boyfriend, work two jobs, and only go out once every weekend or so. She told me that she noticed a huge difference in the me she used to know, and the new me--in a good way. 

But sometimes I worry without my mania, without my depression, if I'll be able to write as deeply as I have in the past. I hope that I can still tap into my madness when I need it. It kind of feels like I've lost a part of me--a toxic part--but one that was able connect with people through words on paper. 

And I'm not too sure where to end this either... because I like the stability of my life now too.

Hmmmm... maybe I'll just go volunteer in Africa for a year, stop my meds, write a bestseller, and then get back on them and live the good life. 

Don't worry--- I'll consult my psychiatrist first ;)

In the Fall of 2006 I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. In December of 2012 I experienced the worst, not the first, depressive episode I've yet to have. I'd lay in bed all day sleeping, when I woke I wouldn't be able to stop crying, I didn't know why. I stopped going to class, I stopped looking for a job, I fell two months behind in paying rent and had no way to come up with the money. I had fallen behind with payments of a ticket I received, I had a warrant for my arrest. I was waiting to be evicted, waiting to be arrested, and worse than anything: waiting, hoping, to die.

I'd spend countless hours on the internet researching my symptoms. I knew what was wrong with me, I knew it was my bipolar. I'd read blogs from other people that were bipolar, searching and hoping for a way to end this. I thought that I was bound to feel that way for the rest of my life. I'd sit on my floor, sobbing for hours, writing furiously through my tears. I wrote countless suicide notes, I had come to terms with death and was so close to accepting it as my fate.

And then, I met Waleed. 

He had a eight week old pitbull named Kali that was the cutest puppy I've seen to this day.

You have to admit, she is adorable.

Waleed and I fell in love very quickly, almost too quickly.

He saw that I was broken, and he wanted to fix me. He asked me to be his girlfriend on the New Year's countdown: Five, four, three, two, one--"Lauren Rice, will you be my girlfriend?"

I know, so cheesy, so middle school, but still, so cute.

After nine days of being official, he asked me to move in with him. He let me pick out the apartment, and we still live here. He paid rent by himself the first few months. I went to a psychiatrist, applied for a medical withdrawal for the previous semester, and focused on fixing myself.

We had a lot of rough patches. For the first few months I still battled with depression, I attempted suicide once, and refused to stay on my meds. Waleed dealt with my crying spells, my sleeping all day, and my temper tantrums for three months before I started seeing my psychiatrist again. At that point in time, I had only one thing that made me happy, Kali. Not even Waleed at the time! 

I've now been medicated for a few months. I have two jobs, one of them my DREAM job (Virginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing). I am still a full-time student. I have picked up my love for cooking and decorating again. Waleed and I will be celebrating our eight month anniversary soon. Kali is now 10 months old and HUGE. And I can't imagine why in the world I would ever want to end my life.

It's hard to believe I couldn't see the light in life just a few months ago, and now I have so much good in my life I don't know what to do with it. I am so in love with Waleed and Kali that I don't have room for sadness in my heart anymore. It's a good feeling. And I'm still a little bit crazy-- crazy in love :)