Most people think that bipolar disorder consists strictly of manic and depressive episodes.
That's like saying the rainbow consists only of red and blue.
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There would never be another mug like that, or another man like him, or another love affair worth remembering.
I was too old for such silly souvenirs; my life was as good as over. Carelessly, my eyesight blurred by tears, I tried to sweep up the shards in the sink; but they cut me and blood began to flow.
I couldn't do anything right, I thought, so I picked up another piece of the mug and deliberately sliced my naked ring finger.
More blood – another thin red rivulet, merging with the first and coursing down the drain. All that afternoon, I continued to swirl between emotions, not a single good one in the bunch.
Trying to explain how a mixed state feels is like trying to snatch hold of a tornado.
It's impossible – the damned thing never stops long enough to be captured. Last Wednesday, I woke up knowing that something was wrong.
It was a gorgeous day, the kind Southern California is famous for. " I got rid of the caller as quickly as possible and fixed myself a cup of coffee. Cursing, I threw it in the sink, where it broke into a hundred shards.
Too gorgeous: the birds outside my window harped on my nerves, the abundant sunshine made me squint. It was my favorite mug, not just because of its cheery yellow flowers but because it was the last remaining evidence of a weekend tryst with a long-lost boyfriend.
Hopelessness, fear, self-loathing, despair – all the classic notes of depression were there, but they were overlaid with the least desirable aspects of mania. I kept thinking about my old boyfriend, and that last weekend we had spent away, so in love, so eager to be together.