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You wouldn’t know it from what I’ve recently written, but I’ve been struggling. Behind my posts about flowing wells, water towers, courthouses, fords, boulders, and schools, there’s been a heavy haze I haven’t mentioned yet. I’ve been navigating through a major depressive episode. Bipolar II disorder has taken hold again, and I’m in a rough place.

I’d rather be writing about anything else, but I’ve been open about bipolar since soon after I started this blog. Some have called that brave. Others have said it’s helped them. I’m not sure about the brave part, but I’m always grateful when something I write makes a difference. That’s why I’m publishing this post today.

I started feeling weird when I was nineteen. At the time, I was juggling a forty-hour work schedule with a full load of advanced college courses- some at the 300- and 400-level. I crushed it until the fog rolled in. It was slow, heavy, and creeping. 

My doctor diagnosed Bipolar. It was nice to put a name to a face, but other than that, it’s been pretty awful. At the deepest depths, I no longer want to be here. When I’m mired in depression, I disengage. Basics like eating, sleeping, and showing up to work on time keep me tethered. Still, even those tasks feel like mountains to climb.

Some people scoff at depression, especially in this age of plenty. Other than genetics, I don’t have reason to be depressed: I have a home. I have a steady job. I have two cats who seem to sense when I’m struggling and do their best to comfort me. I have this blog, and I have most of my family. Still, none of that makes me immune.

This disorder isn’t my fault, but I manage it the best I can with medication, with coping tools, and with hard-won perspective. Most of the time, I’m okay. Still, sometimes, I’m not. 

I went on some drives over the past few weeks once I felt the haze start to roll in. They helped a little, and supplied some content for posts I lined up. As those go live, hunkering down and holding steady is the rhythm for the foreseeable future. 

Climbing out is daunting. I grew up thinking I was here for a good time instead of a long time. I went unmedicated through most of my twenties. Unfortunately, the good time never manifested. Instead, I was miserable. The fallout from those years still lingers and makes taking up this gauntlet super daunting. 

Still, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from fifteen years of living with bipolar disorder, it’s this: wait. Just wait.

When the weight settles in and everything feels unbearable, I try my hardest to remind myself that this isn’t forever. I’ve been through the cycle enough times to trust the patterns I’ve perceived.

Darkness doesn’t last- it lifts. Soon, I hope to be able to help it on its way by fixing something small that I can control. The corner of my fitted sheet keeps coming undone. One of these days, I’ll mount an attack.

If I can trust my experience, little things like that will turn into bigger ones. As they do, the darkness will begin to turn, and color will come back to the world. It might be quiet at first, but then it’ll all come back all at once. Things will get better. I’m sure of it.