In those first months on my new medications, my brain wobbled unsteadily and my head ached, my eyes felt like they were replaying scenes a second too far behind. I would tilt my head and the world would slide lazily into place after it. I was dizzy and nauseous and cold. I gained even more weight. I cried when my pants wouldn’t button even though I had cut out sugar, and dairy, and grains and watched every mouthful suspiciously for the ways even the healthiest foods seemed to sabotage me. I forgot words and book plots and my hands shook when I tried to type. I hadn’t reached for my husband and was, in fact, surprised when he leaned over to kiss me and I realized I had no desire left. I hadn’t even realized it had gone. It was as if that womanly part of me that used to come alive under his touch had simply vanished as if it were never there to begin with. I started staying up late watching television in the living room and only going to sleep after he had long since started snoring. I pulled inward. I lost friendships. I didn’t know what to say anymore. I wasn’t sad so much as absent.
I couldn’t explain that I was both happy that I was getting better and also grieving all I had lost.
I waited for my body to come back to me. I waited for my mind to feel familiar.
I wondered who I was now that the world was an even, if not unrecognizable, place.
I never knew how hard it was to grab hold of words and pull them to earth now that my mind felt insulated, swathed in fancy chemicals to keep the mania away.
Is my normal self boring? Is boring the greatest answer to those hollowed out prayers? After all the chaos, is boring its own salvation?
But still, even with the adjustments, I feel stupidly grateful that I am alive to struggle. That my kids get a mom who is there every day to help with algebra and read them stories and tell them to brush their teeth. That I can check the mail and buy ground beef and pay my electric bill. That I laugh at a funny rerun of The Office. That a weekend away with my husband reminds me of all we still have. That I am still a woman.
I am relearning myself as ordinary. Just someone who takes her pills faithfully every night and sleeps a solid eight hours.
I am learning the rhythms of regularity without the cycles crashing down on me.
I put the bitter pill in my mouth and swallow it whole.
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This article originally appeared at The Mudroom.
