I am hoping the recent trend towards not obsessing about food is going to continue. It has been remarkably refreshing to have space in my head for other things. First among these "other things" has been considering the implications of my postpartum bipolar diagnosis.
On the one hand, it is like being given a pardon for a life sentence. I was convinced that I was a terrible monster because of the way I behaved after both my kids were born. Being manic is hard to describe to anyone who has not been there, but it is sort of like being in the eye of a storm. You know there is a storm, but you can't see it from where you are. I recognized that my behaviors were risky, impulsive, potentially disastrous, but I had no ability to stop them. I felt that I *had* to do what I was doing; it was compulsive, lacking any reference to the outside world (other than at least having sufficient self awareness to not broadcast everything I was doing to the world), and seemingly necessary. Even at the time, I remember thinking that if I *could* behave otherwise, I would. But my brain and my body were humming along at a million miles an hour. I slept two nights out of every five or six, and even then it was for a few hours. My thoughts raced, and in the absence of anything particular, it would revert to song lyrics on a loop. I could not turn it off or tune it out. The antidepressant I was prescribed after both kids were born (because of immediate anxiety issues after my first child was born) exacerbated all of this, but I had no way of knowing that. I believed that I had just managed to evade my genetic destiny (most members of my family struggle with mental illness and addiction), but now things had changed. I also truly, truly believed that what I was doing was necessary. It was what I needed to do in order to live the life I wanted. If you had asked me at the time to define what this life was that I wanted, I would not have really been able to tell you, other than some vague but intense declarations about freedom and happiness.
In retrospect, it all seems so obvious. Looking at clinical definitions of manic behavior is like looking at a snapshot of how I felt after the birth of both kids - with my second postpartum experience being much, much more intense. After my older son was born, I struggled with anxiety and then some impulsive, irrational behavior, but it was more controlled. The birth of my second child was almost immediate chaos. I had about two-three months of (what I now recognize as) a slow build to a manic break, and then the storm hit.
Why it never occurred to me to ask a medical professional about whether my behavior - so completely and utterly out of character for me in a million different ways - might have a better explanation than "you are an irredeemable monster who decimated a kind and good husband and missed crucial bonding time with both of your children just because," I do not know. I just know that for a very long time now (over three years), I have hated myself. I have hated myself for the infidelity, the dishonesty, the recklessness, the inability to be present with anyone, but especially my children, and I have hated myself for the way I hurt others, most particularly my ex-husband. I had no explanation, no justification, just a slag heap of self-loathing. No matter how many times I told my ex-husband that I was sorry, that it was all my fault, that he did nothing wrong, and that I was totally responsible for the end of our marriage, I knew it made no difference. Not to him and not to me.
I did not want my marriage to continue for many reasons, but I wished to God that it could have ended differently, without the bomb scarred no-man's land I created at the end.
And now I am told that there was a chemical reason for my actions - that I was clinically, diagnosable-y bonkers. I am not a horrible monster, but rather someone who fell into intense mental illness as a result of the postpartum hormone tidal wave and a mis-prescribed anti-depressant.
Does this feel good? It feels mostly like a relief. That is different from good. I am relieved that I can stop hating myself (or, at least, hate myself less). I am relieved that knowing this means it will very likely never happen again. The next possible time it could happen, since I am done having kids, is menopause, and knowing how hormonal shifts of that magnitude affect me, I can prepare and have medical professionals ready to help me if I start to shift into a manic phase. It does not feel good because I still did things that hurt people. Yes, there was a reason, and no, I am not a monster, but how much does that matter to the people you have hurt? Do the families of drunk driving victims feel less pain because they understand that alcoholics are suffering from a disease?
The only people who know about any of this so far are my psychiatrist, D (although I spared him a lot of detail about my exact behaviors because there seemed to be no need. I was honest about the infidelity and the manic-ness), and my mom. In order of detail, my psych knows everything, my mom knows less, and D knows the least, but given that I have never, ever told another human being any truth about what went on for me, telling my psych, D and my mom is a massive, massive step forward for me.
Eating disorders thrive in an atmosphere of secrecy, and I am hoping that allowing light into the part of my life that I am so overwhelmingly ashamed of, will allow me to bring light into the dark corners of binge eating, too. It has been 22 days since my last binge.
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