Mania and Migraines

So yes, my moodswings have totally changed. The rapid cycling I was worrying about has finally burst through the barrier– I am completely manic. Manic. Manic. Manic.

And my fucking god the headaches, I don’t know where the headaches are coming from. They are more than headaches. They remind me of Virginia Woolf, how she had headaches so debilitating she couldn’t do more than hold her head in her hands.

It feels like an old fashioned headphone band wrapped around my head. Squeezing. It’s there constantly, maybe just lightly, threatening to return.

But last night, in a manic rage, I ripped a bunch of books to shreds. Seeing the pages fall like confetti around my room was actually very therapeutic. But the migraine set in afterward. Squeezing my head. 10mg Valium, 200mg Seroquel, 5mg Ambien, and because of this headache I could not sleep. It penetrated my dreams. My roommate woke me up at 5am to check on me, and all I could do the next three hours was lay, hold my head, and cry. I took some ibuprofen and it gave me enough relief to sleep.

But when I woke up today, my God what a fucking state I was in. You couldn’t get a full sentence out of me, my behavior was insane. Dancing and singing, but always the headache in the back of my head.

THIS IS NOT A HEADACHE. THIS IS INCAPACITATING. I plan on going to urgent care ASAP tomorrow morning. Because if this keeps up, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ve never felt such pain in my life. What do you take for migraines? please help.

The mania doesn’t help. I’m at a loss. I don’t even know what to type…

Gabe

Poetry Monday #1: “Hope Less, Sleep More”

This poem was written in the depths of depression, with just an inkling of hope in my mind. (Circa 2012 by Gabriel Corona)

Hopeless, Sleep More

The practical pair:
Hopeless and Sad.
I keep them around
Cause they’re not all that bad.
There’s a comfort I find there
In being sad.
That comfort, I’ve found,
Well, it’s not all that bad.
Between the sound and the silence,
There’s nothing I lack.
Between the notes and the smoke,
I can finally relax,
Lay my head down and dream
About cocaine and smack.
Cause being hopeless is just
A prelude to relapse.

It might sound sad when I say
That I’m content to remain
Hopeless. But it’s not,
It’s a comforting thought.
That hopelessness, see,
At least to me,
Is a defense mechanism.
A comfortable nest.
It’s not at all like a prison,
It’s a down feather bed.
Where after my days of sorrow and woe,
I can lay down my head, and just let go.
I’m numb;
It’s number.
It’s cum.
It’s comfort.
It’s dumb;
I’m dumber.

If I
Can get through
Today
Without slitting my wrists,
Swallowing pills,
Or jumping off cliffs,
Doing things that can kill,
Taking suicide risks,
Then I guess
That I’m here
To stay.