Springtime is here, and as per Jady-esque trope, I’m feeling lifted up and bright, with the inevitable fear of nigh-imminent hypomania and ensuing maddness. Life with bipolar psychosis (or schizoaffective disorder? but really, 6 of one…) is a study in taking them lemons of ‘interesting’ brain chemistry, adding a flavorful dash of old trauma, tempering the sour with coping and compassion, and making the least acidic lemonade you can manage. Turns out, loyal reader, you can’t make lemonade without getting a drop or two of bitterness in your eye. How does my bitterness manifest and make me cry angry tears tonight, the nicest night of the year so far? Ruminating on a few things, actually. For instance, I accept and yet I mourn the following:

1. I take daily meds that hurt my stomach, are oft-adjusted and don’t always adapt to hit the quick-moving targets of stress and dysregulation that turn a pleasant day into a desolate minefield. Fine, throw that shade, universe…I have an excellent, compassionate and responsive care team with MVPs that rival (insert famous and wildly talented sports team line up here).
2. One of my meds is specifically aimed at harnessing psychosis, and there’s a big ol’ world of triggers out there, especially in the warmer months, so I have to mind my proverbial step in the spring and summer, and letting myself go is simply not an option I’m willing to entertain. Well dammit…ok, also fine, I’ve had my fill of wild summer party-months. The 20s were a hell of a ride. Bygones.
3. I’ve not had my last traumatic day, and knowing that is at times exhausting. Especially now, in my career, in my studies, thinking that ‘the bad times’ are behind me simply isn’t an option. There indeed is more yet to come, and the more you live, the more you realize how very statistically impossible it is to be happy All The Time. Hmm. Also also fine, acceptable, the meaning of life is the journey, etc and so on.

The biggest lemon, the bitterest, most acidic and sharp to the tongue, is the memories I’ve lost. Between my psychotic fugue states, my PTSD mind-games of blocking out bad AND good experiences (I’d rather have both, thanks), and knowing that although there are ways of accessing these moments in my past, they’re difficult, costly, and not always very effective…most of the time, I accept this part of my reality. Sometimes, however, the grief of what I don’t remember is staggering. I quite literally have Mystery Friends…people I know, some of them quite well, whom I cannot recall meeting. I know them, we talk, but if you asked how we met or in what context they became part of my life, I’d be clueless. No idea where…Chicago, SLC, Oakland, NYC, England, take a guess. It’s one of my most deep-set insecurities, actually…worrying that people think I don’t care about them when I genuinely cannot recollect our past.

Sometimes telling me stories helps; some memories are hidden under rocks that are easy for someone else to lift, and once they’re describing them, I do have the capacity to recall. Some, however, are just plain gone. Too much trauma in that spot in the timeline, sorry but nope, didn’t keep that moment in my grey matter, even if it was remarkable and quite possibly kept my heart alive.

And tonight, upon the mention of a memory, I’m watching a movie I’ve seen before, feeling very Momento-esque, because I have seen it before and it was significant and I don’t REALLY know why, yet. It might come back. Maybe. Also quite possibly not. I find that part, that not-ever-coming-back part of my memory, only just barely bearably sad right now.

Then again, you don’t make beautiful moments happen just too remember them later, however nice that might be. Making good memories isn’t really a choice to stock up on pleasant things to recall, at least not for me. I consider a good memory with someone you love more along the lines of divine intervention. Not masterminded by a godhead figure, I’m too agnostic for that, but a moment when you were just in the right time, at the right second, at the intersection of two unique and turbulent timelines. While it would be so very sweet to remember the specifics of how that moment fed your love and instilled hope and wonder in your world, well…

I’m guess I’m just glad I was there at all.