Hormonal bipolar. That almost rhymes!
Anybody else out there ever experience manic-depression as part of their P.M.S? (No, sir, I wasn’t talking to you.) I don’t very often. Maybe three times a year? But when I do, it’s…interesting.
Let me be the first to say that the manic phase is not extreme enough to be diagnosed as mania in a doctor’s office. I’ve read up on it. Maybe it would be more fair to call this brief and occasional phase “a short burst of high energy.”
But that would make me sound normal. And I wouldn’t want you to think that I’m normal.
Here’s what happened the other day: I woke up full of energy.
This should have been my first clue, because these days I usually wake up after a full night’s rest wanting another two hours (at least!) of sleep.
(No, it’s not my adrenals, it’s perimenopause. If you’re younger than your forties, stop trying to give me arm-chair diagnoses based on your favorite natural health blog. Well, or maybe you shouldn’t. After all, in all fairness, I should reap what I used to sow. Bad on me.)
I was in a great mood all the way through breakfast. Everything B did was cute. (Usually, the exact opposite is the case.)
After breakfast, I decided to dust. I got a rag, and I started dusting. Boy, was I dusting! And I was having a good time! I was The Delighted Duster. I even took the old lace curtain that covers the short bookcases off, went outside and shook it as clean as I could, and dusted the top of the bookcases.
Which I usually think of excuses NOT to do. (It’s too hot. It’s drizzling. I’m tired. Trump got elected President.)
While I dusted, my mind roamed to ways that I could declutter a bit more, and other small chores I might accomplish that day.
None of this may sound strange to you, but that’s because you don’t understand: I hate housecleaning. I hate it as much as I hate spending money.
Except when I’m experiencing Hormonal Mania.
A little later, I was scrubbing the sink when I had a light bulb idea: why not bring the old computer desk into the house (it was Tuff Shed) for B to do his art projects on so he wouldn’t have to clutter up his floor? I began picturing where I would move everything on it to new homes inside the shed, and how I would arrange things on it once it was in the house.
Those are my first two symptoms of Hormonal Bipolar: I am full of energy to the extent that I enjoy housecleaning, and I have Grand Ideas that involve Major Rearranging Of Things.
Somewhere in there, B and J played a few games of dominoes, then began making domino trails to knock down. B commented, “If I had more dominoes, this could be way longer!”
Instantly, I decided that we would buy him more dominoes for his upcoming birthday.
So what, you ask? ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION, dear reader? Did you not hear me say a couple of paragraphs ago that I hate spending money? I never just decide on a spur of the moment to buy anything, especially more toys for our spoiled brat of a dear son.
By this time, I had figured that my mood was hormonal and wouldn’t last. And I knew that this rash decision to spend an extra $10 for B’s birthday was confirmation. (Whoops – actually turned out to be an extra $30. Da – a -ng.)
But the good times never last
The condition is called “bipolar” for a reason. After the mania comes the depression. So after about three hours of bliss, my energy began to sag. My mood began to fall.
Before he knew it, J was being given the silent treatment for reading too much. This is a long story that I alluded to back in this post, so I won’t rehash it. Let’s just say that my already being annoyed with this addiction (hey, I’m just calling it like it is) coupled with the post-mania crash and J’s very bad sense of the passage of time, had me on the computer a little while later looking for apartments near Tulsa.
Seriously. Yes, I was. I felt like our marriage was on the rocks and I was tired of J not living up to the standards of the men in the romance novels who always know the exact right thing to say and never do anything selfish and I was jealous of his Kindle and I felt like a big lump of lead had grown in my chest so all I wanted to do was run away.
Then, guess what? Can you guess? God made the Internet connection stop working.
A few hours after that, I was hugging my husband, saying, “I forgive you.”
As if. These P.M.S. bipolar sessions skew my perspective just a little bit.
I’m glad they are few and far between. (But why can’t that good mood/energy last?)