PM Dose: 600mg lithium carbonate, 5mg clonazepam, 100mg Lamictal, 10mg Abilify.

For the first time since I started Abilify, which was about two weeks ago, I woke straight up out of bed, interrupting a deep and needed rest. Something wants to pour out of me and all 715mg of these prescription-strength drugs aren’t going to dam it.

My eyes hurt from crying. The last time I cried–our last phone call—was modest but healthy–ample. The magnitude of these tears caused my abs to curl my body into a dry heave stance which produced a fierce current of tears and mucous. Unpleasant and necessary.

That expulsion conjured a body memory of visiting hours in the hospital. Other than the typical close company of curious patients and wary nurses, Jackie was the only one that could force her way in. She was the only one that I would let stay. It helped to block everyone out but her—get them out of the way so that my body could eject this hurt fast, and heal.

I am not able to separate the hysteria of those fits from the psychotic mania and abysmal depression, nor do I care to at this juncture. Those events are all knotted up in memory (mine and others) and while I am tempted, I am more afraid of unraveling what I can’t see of my induced rapid cycling era from the clear, even surface of well-managed Bipolar Disorder, Type II.

I can say what caused that feeling tonight and maybe that will explain enough, if not without some minor description. I told her that she was “better than medicine.” I explained it to her in between sobs so I suppose it would help to outline it for you, too.

The truth is I have been particurarly obedient to my medications since my last birthday in May. Sometimes I interrupt an entire agenda to chase down a missed pill. But before then I considered my prescriptions as loose recommendations, or “Required Texts.”

It was not a conscious decision to substitute her effect for the anticipated effect of the drugs. If I had that much control over things then submitting to this dreadful illness would be effortless. In this case I prefer to suffer.

Consciously or not, she became a remedy. She was always close, and I was allowed as much of her as I could handle. Sometimes I was given more. She was there, from the hospital and out, to nurse me–not that she thought that’s was doing (but I’m supposed to stop thinking on her behalf).

She was oblivious. So was I. But, she was loving me and caring for me because it was what she wanted (this much I know). I am lucky she was there. Her love relegated the medication to the shroud of other tenuous variables like diet and stress.

But as I pause now to reconsider my life and progress (because my illness afforded me the luxury of this exploration) I ponder if I had consumed more of her than any quantity of medication—if the the two could be compared.

Was I medicating myself with her? She had become a supplement in my ongoing recovery, to be sure. She was there before and after; bless her. I’m certain of it now, she had become another ingredient in the fusion of ‘feel better” that I had been guzzling. And, it seems now that in many cases, she actually was, “Better than medicine.” It doesn’t even seem like a compliment anymore. I sure am glad she took it as such. It took me a long time to find a way to come up with those three words.

I told her how hard this past semester had been—she had no idea. Most people still don’t. People only seem to believe what I tell them. And, I could be better about revealing what really matters—that I am suffering. I just haven’t found anyone with the time since her, not even someone for hire. I’m forced to compromise and compress what I am feeling into what can be digested.

It’s lossy compression, too. It’s not like a zip file that keeps everything safe. It’s like saving a raw image to a JPEG or GIF file meant for downloading over low-bandwidth and then using it for a profile picture on thefacebook. It’s like bastardizing my emotions, my self.

Anyhow it was healing to speak to her. And it helps me to know that she is well. At least there’s that.