After a rambling like the one I wrote last night. After a weekend like the one I experienced. After a day at work like today, it's hard to know just where to start another rambling.

At this point, I think it would be borderline silly to continue withholding certain information about myself from the readers of this web page -- information which I have tried to keep mostly under wraps until now. Why have I kept this something a secret, even from the page where Bitscape tells (almost) all about himself?

To describe the main reason, and perhaps the only reason, I'll repeat something I told one of my superiors at work today: Because in our culture, there is a nasty stigma associated with what I have.

Why am I about to come out with it here now? Well, if I was truly worried about stigma, I wouldn't:

(a) Semi-admit that I listen to the Antichist, at least when I am in a certain mood. (For those who still don't know who that is, you'll just have to figure it out.)

(b) Proudly defend the name of Xena: Warrior Princess in the land of doubting content vultures, and...

... on a more serious note ...

(c) Write and publish what I did last night.

I figure that if there are people out there who are going to dislike or turn away from me for such superficial reasons, the things I have already said would provide plenty of ammo for them. Why not add a little more?

The other reason I'm about to reveal what I'm about to reveal is that I now see an opportunity to turn my awful experience into something positive by using this page to inform and educate people regarding a certain issue.

Oh, and also this: I don't see any way to make last night's tale have contextual sense unless I tell what I'm about to tell. It was but a glimpse of a fragment in a much larger picture.

Okay, enough buildup, and enough suspense. Let's get on with it.

In the spring of 1996, I was diagnosed as having manic depressive illness. I was hospitalized against my will. I was confined. After days of forced isolation, and injection of God knows how many antipsychotics and sedative drugs, I became coherent enough to understand and listen to what other people were trying to say to me, even though my paranoia didn't allow me to believe them until much later. They were telling me that I was sick.

Manic depression has been described eloquently by many people as many things, most of which are slipping my mind right now.

I'll just try to give my own description, the technical accuracy of which would probably have any medical professional wreathing in horror.

Manic depression is a chemical disease which affects the mind. It is hereditary. There is no cure. In this day and age, there are ways to treat it. Treatment allows those who suffer from it to live pretty much normal lives. The treatment must be applied on an ongoing basis, however.

Even if diagnosed, that "ongoing basis" part can become a problem for some of us. Why? Well, for one thing, it's a hassle. Visits to the doctor on a regular recurring basis is not much fun. Sometimes, it can seem downright pointless. But that's not the end of the reason for not getting treatment.

There are certain advantages to this "illness". For one thing, manic depressive people typically possess a high degree of intelligence. Many of us can be very creative. When one gets on a manic roll, there is brilliance. There is productivity. There is inspiration. Besides that, it feels great!

It's difficult to describe the harmony, joy, and oneness that overcomes the spirit when a good natural high takes hold. The feeling can become very addictive. Unfortunately, it doesn't last.

Go too high, and suffer what I did in '96. Staying up night after night, day after day, completing a project at a feverish pace. The inner drive keeps going higher and higher, stronger and stronger, until it spirals out of control. A complete and utter loss of rationality. All of life becomes a strange, twisted dream. In one moment, everything in the world seems possible. In the next, you're banging futilely on the walls of a cell. You're there because you were charging around in public, shouting, removing articles of clothing, throwing your own shoes in the river, and walking down the median of a busy street at night. And NOBODY, no matter how hard they tried, could get through to you.

Nobody could get through to me.

The other half of it is the depressive side. Times like the weekend I just had.

When less severe depression attacks hit, all you want to do is lock yourself in your room. You're okay as long as nobody bothers you. You keep to yourself as much as possible. The world is perceived as a hollow, lifeless tomb. Nothing seems worthwhile. All colors are grey.

It gets worse from there. A hatred of oneself and the world that's hard to fathom. Even now, I'm having trouble remembering what such times are like, because I typically try to block them out of my mind afterward. Nothing can really impress you. There is no joy in any of it. An extreme loathing of everything and everyone.

I don't even want to keep writing this part, because thinking of it brings me back to it.

...

After my hospitalization, I got regular treatment, and took my medications faithfully. I recovered to the point that I was able to go to college. My parents were ecstatic about this, and encouraged me in every way they could.

It was while I was AT college that things took a downturn. I had been doing so well, that the doctors back in Colorado had decreased the frequency of my visits while here. They would prescribe me large amounts of medication; enough to last me many months. This arrangement seemed to be working out.

My parents helped me hook up with doctors in Nebraska, who saw me even less frequently. This due largely to the fact that transportation out there was a pain in the ass, especially when you had to work appointments in during the day, between classes, and either coinciding with bus schedules (AND make it back in time for another class), or get sufficient time to walk. That was the excuse, at any rate.

Another thing happened during this time: I started skipping doses. I needed to get such-and-such assignment done, AND I needed be alert the next day. Lithium, short sleep schedules, and alertness cannot coexist. One of the three must be sacrificed. More often than not, I sacrificed lithium.

At one of the rare doctor appointments I had while in the town, I made some half-hearted attempt to explain how I thought it was affecting me. The doctor suggested that instead of taking part of my daily dose in the morning, and part in the evening, I take ALL of it in the evening. This would lead to better sleep, and less day haziness. So I tried that.

Then things really took a downturn. When I took the whole lump of pills in the evening, my stomach complained. Loudly. It didn't take long before even looking at a bottle of lithium was enough to trigger nausea.

That's when I pretty much went off of it altogether. Occassionally, when I felt the familiar buzz coming on, I would go back and force some down for several nights in a row. Nothing near the prescribed amount though.

Eventually, the inevitable depression hit. I dropped out, telling myself I could enroll here in Boulder in the fall. That was a pathetic cover story, if ever I've heard one.

Fall of '99 came and went. I lived in my room, spending weeks on end during which I would barely venture out of my bedroom door to eat, much less exit the house. I got little bits of cash from occassionally programming a perl module for x13.com, here and there. ROTFL about the resumé&; item I had for that.

Eventually, I was able to stand it no longer. When the year 2000 started, I determined to get myself back on my feet, made a list of New Year's resolutions, and went about fulfilling them as best I could.

I got a job. After a few attempts at getting into the night life, the g/f resolution didn't seem to be going so well. I earned some money, took out a loan for a new car with my father's help, and bought a new computer. Overall, life was looking pretty good.

At one point, I did inform my ment.... [Ahem. Let's Ctrl-H that.] I did inform The Emailist Formerly Known as My Mentor of my condition. Upon hearing a summary very much like the one above, The Emailist Formerly Known as My Mentor strongly advised me to get my ass to a doctor.

I said that I would try, or something along those lines.

Over the months, The Emailist Formerly Known as My Mentor (this is going get old really quickly, isn't it?) became more pressing, and probably more exhasperated with my lack of action. I kept saying that I would get around to it.

Actually, The Emailist [..blahblahblah..] did more than just advise, but outlined for a very methodical plan for choosing a good doctor. I tried, failed, made attempts, found excuses, had qualms, delays, other priorities, etc.

All the while, my sickness was taking a turn for the worse, and I was in denial about it. There were brief moments when I allowed myself to realize the seriousness of the situation, but these times were not long enough for me to follow through with what I needed to do. Or, I would become too depressed to be mentally capable of getting help, but never got quite bad enough to hit the emergency button. Until last weekend.

Throughout all this, the mentor I had at the time put up with a LOT of shit. Messages I sent in distress in the middle of the night, to which the response would be bits of encouragement, calming words, and some not so subtle "Doctor. Now." orders. Always firm, but also gentle.

This last weekend, I exhausted my former mentor's patience. I also exhausted my own ability to keep this thing under control. 12am Sunday morning until whenever it was that I finally got to sleep again on Monday morning was the strangest bit of hell I've experienced since 1996.

...

This morning, I drove to work, walked in, and sat down in my cubicle as normal. I was expecting another hectic day in hell. It turned out to not be quite so bad.

I didn't have much trouble finding time to make the call to the mental health clinic this morning. Seemed like ages had passed since I had been given that number late on Saturday night / Sunday morning.

I was asked a large batch of questions, all of which I should have known the answers to, but some of which were fuzzy. ("When was the last time you saw a doctor?" Uhhhh... was it two, or three years ago? Forget about narrowing it down to what month.)

Anyway, they got my insurance info, which needs to be verified, and I should get a call back tomorrow to make an appointment.

Another surprising fact: Who would've known that words I utter on this page could travel so far? I'll just say that a lot of people I didn't expect became understandably concerned because of what I had written. It is appreciated.

I guess in the future, I would also be well advised to avoid making less than complimentary generalizations about HR people. When something goes on the net, you never know how far it might spread. And, um, not all such generalizations are necessarily true. I think I'll stop before I dig myself too deep to get out.

But sales folks are ALWAYS fair game. ;)

So, here I am, dead tired now. I've consumed a nice plate of Chinese food during this rambling. Parents / brother ordered it. Unless they read this page, they don't know the events of my weekend. I'm not sure if or when I plan to tell them.

Some of us learned to act long before we started taking any classes.

I'm gonna fall over and pass out if I don't get into bed soon. It's not even 2100 yet, but given the night I had last night, tossing, turning, thinking about etc (some things still secrets), I am not the least bit surprised at how I feel right now. And I am glad for it. If I were NOT tired, then there would be more cause for worry. Rapid cycling and black mania are not things I look forward to.

Alright, now, I spent a few minutes scanning the web for further resources if people want to learn more. I did a google search, but nothing in particular stood out as a definitive resource that I liked, except perhaps this faq. If you want to learn more about it described in a much better way than I could, follow that link.

For the dead tree vultures, I would recommend An Unquiet Mind, by Kay Redfield Jamison. As well as being a great autobiography, it's probably the best first-hand description I've ever read about what it's like to experience this condition.

(Yes, it was one book that I did completely finish last fall. It was THAT interesting.)

Alright. I need my sleep. I'm going to bed. Right now. Big move coming tomorrow. I want to be ready for it. Thanks to all who expressed their support.