Noticing Me Notice me

When you cut out as many distractions as you can, it’s easy to notice things. Like how much time you have in the morning if you don’t scroll your timelines before getting out of bed. Or how much money you spend on unnecessary takeout just because you’re too lazy to cook. You notice how many hours a day you’ve spent at work, and that the day isn’t really over when you get home. You notice your moods throughout the week and it becomes easier to check in with yourself.

I am almost three weeks into my hiatus, and I wish I had a fairytale to recite. I wish I could tell my readers how this hiatus is the best thing to happen to me, and then urge everyone to do the same. 

In reality, this hiatus is doing everything to break me down. I know I can be rebuilt–tougher, improved, with more intention–but the process is a tricky one. I’ve been on top of my mood-tracking–praying in the morning and planning my day with a variety of to-do lists on index cards–and I’m grateful. I’ve even noticed a small pattern, mostly within the triggers of my depressive episodes. Just last week, I felt so inferior. I felt like I was worthless to many and that I could never fix myself. I questioned the intention behind this hiatus and doubted this period of transition. I even started missing my ex a little, feeling lonelier than ever before. 

Come Sunday night, and boom, I no longer felt that way. I felt confident in myself and my choices. I rejoiced in the sadness being washed away, absolutely determined to use this energy and harness it toward productivity and creative bursts. I have become all too familiar with this cycle. I feel sad as hell for a while, clinging to dear life just for a sliver of progression. And before I’d even be able to notice, the wave would dissipate. I’d be back to (what I considered) normal. My best ideas are always born in this ‘normal’--thoughts crashing against the sides of my brain like ocean waves. I’d get the most energy in this ‘normal’--being able to go a full day without my usual cup of caffeinated tea, staying up past my bedtime, and waking up before my alarms. This ‘normal’ brought my willingness to socialize–strangers on the street, coworkers, and my favorite text buddies cannot escape my desire to socialize and make myself known. This ‘normal’ had become my comfort zone, and I always enabled it because I was always aware of how swiftly it could end. 

See, I loved those ‘normal’ flows.

They’re a little testy, sure, because I was full of so much energy, I’d be easily irritated. I’d be confident as hell, but fidgety and anxious. I’d stumble over words because my mind couldn’t catch up with the words that spilled from my mouth. And still, I loved it here. Scribbles in my Idea Book are born in this phase, and I remind myself just how smart (or innovative, or helpful, or important) I and my ideas are. I like this normal because I feel motivated and untouchable, like God Himself cast a light of personal protection around me. This phase is what gives me hope during the times I bedrot, wondering if everything is going to be okay.

Another Sunday night, and here I was feeling back to normal. My confidence and energy came back. That sweet, sweet familiar ray of light cast upon me was back, and it was warming my skin. Except this time, my normal feeling came with something different. With the limited distractions, thanks to my hiatus, that ray of light created shadows–shadows I’d never noticed before. Yes, I was in the mood to socialize, work out twice a day, and write blogs upon blogs on any topic in my mind. And yes, I was confident and ready to face adversity, completely convinced I could make my way through anything. But there was something else lurking behind the scenes–come Wednesday morning, I’d noticed I hadn’t slept more than 3 hours a night. I remember thinking how weird that was, especially since I still wasn’t sleepy. I thought about how I’d gone full days without eating, although food was available, and then I’d dip into my rent money to order something ridiculous from DoorDash–like, since when did I need to eat Arby’s at 10 PM? In the shadows, I noticed how agitated I got with everyone, despite my incessant desire to speak with them. Everyone was speaking too slowly, and was failing to ‘get to the point’--they needed to be cut off by my far more interesting commentary, lest I go bored and fall limp. I noticed that my inflated sense of self was a bit abnormal–there were always moments I was absolutely positive everyone in the room noticed me. I’d be convinced I was the only attractive person in the room, and everyone was either in adoration or jealousy. I thrived off the concept. And most of all, I noticed that I was smoking a LOT of weed again, for no reason than to help ‘slow myself down’ and relax after a long day of accomplishing shit I’d only just come up with. 

Come Wednesday night, I was in therapy, speaking loudly and quickly about my upcoming plans with my therapist. My goal for that session was to work with my therapist to fill out forms for mental health day accommodations at work. I was very clearly in my ‘get shit done’ era, determined to clear some stuff from my load while I had the energy and confidence to do so. And we did, by the way. My therapist walked me through the form and notated how helpful a mental health day twice a month could be for an employee with mental illnesses.

Boom, another bullet point crossed off that day’s To-Do list. 

“Remind me… why weren’t you interested in medication again?” she said afterward.

This question immediately made my mouth go dry, causing me to forcefully swallow a big wad of air. After almost 6 long years with my therapist, I can count on one hand how many times medication was mentioned. She knew more than anyone about my position against meds. She knew I wasn’t interested for a multitude of reasons: my memory being bad and knowing how inconsistent I’d be in taking them. My harsh experience the last time, and how I started feeling like a shell of myself. The tummyache, weight gain, and acne side effects. For all these years, I’d managed my diagnosis without medication, and I was doing ‘fine’, so hearing her bring them up toward the end of our session felt… calculated. 

“Why do you ask?” I replied. But I knew the answer. She had that head-tilt she does when she wants to tell me something tough and therapeutic. She was getting ready to lay a harsh truth on me. I clutched my metaphorical pearls and leaned in to prompt her to continue. 

“I’ve been noticing your mood cycling in our sessions,” she started. 

And by the way, mood cycling refers to a pattern in bipolar disorder where someone has four or more distinct mood episodes (manic, hypomanic, or depressive) within a year, sometimes switching moods rapidly, even within hours or days, rather than waiting months between episodes. 

The gall of this lady–like how dare this professional with long-term experience with me sit in my face and tell me about shit she’s noticing. “They’re starting to cycle a bit quicker, and I am getting concerned with the levels they cycle to.” 

Oof. In my extensive research about bipolar disorders, I’d always known what mood-cycling was. But I always figured it didn’t apply to me; that my experience with being bipolar was different and special. Bipolar II means one can have traits and symptoms of full-out depressive and (hypo)manic episodes and moods, but they showcase themselves a bit milder. They can slide under the radar, almost. And until that night, they simply weren’t part of my story! In my mind, I was never ‘mood cycling’, I was simply super sad and then super happy, and then a little sad, and then a little happy, and then very sad, and then unusually happy–sometimes within a day, sometimes a week at a time. It was my norm. It was a roller coaster I’d gotten used to riding, and I had a reserved seat for the thrills. 

Now that the door had been open, I zoned out during my session and thought about it. She was right. Had I been so distracted by everything else for years? Was that why I didn’t realize the roller coaster I’d come to know and love was actually detrimental to my lifestyle? At the moment, I felt so embarrassed. My therapist basically just called me crazy. Who the hell wants to hear something like this from a trusted confidant? I kept it cute in the session, though–stating that I’d be open to meds if I -really- needed them, and that I was hesitant for a variety of reasons. She validated me, yes, but also warned me to be gentle with myself right now. 

“Like, more gentle than usual? Why?” I asked. 

“Z, it looks like hypomania.” 

Hypo-fucking-mania. The term that my eyes always grazed over in my disorder research. “That doesn’t apply to me!” I’d always think. The depressive episodes, yes, I recognize those like a familiar cousin at the family reunion. But hypomania? TUH. I would -never- let myself get to a point where I was making reckless decisions from my brain’s imbalance. That night after my session, I snuggled into bed and was unable to sleep (again). I tossed and turned in bed until my eyes lay wide open, staring at the ceiling. The word ‘hypomania’ floated around the room and stuck itself to the walls. The word was wailing, making noises I couldn’t ignore. I opened my laptop, and the research began. 

You know those times we were sick in high school, so we’d type in our symptoms on Google or WebMD, and everything listed underneath a cancer diagnosis aligned with our experience? That’s what was happening. Every single educational/medical article, Reddit thread, and random thread on X (Twitter) sounded like I could have written it myself. “Oh my God”, I said out loud. I was in a period of hypomania. And this was NOT normal. In a matter of three days, I’d spent $238 on food delivery and nonsense buys, I’d slept a total of 7 hours, I’d made 4 new friends I can’t remember the names of, created 3 pitches for my brand, had not taken a shower, and had grown 2x more confident in my looks. And most importantly, I’d consumed a shit ton of weed for literally no reason. I could only manage to release a forceful chuckle when I closed my laptop that night (or morning, since it was 3 AM). 

I had to go to work in 5 hours. How was I supposed to show up and get things done after learning that I was living in a hellish pattern–after learning that hypomania was, in fact, part of my story and a much bigger piece than I knew? I went to work anyway, of course, but I kept it in the back of my mind. 

And that’s where I am now–reminding myself throughout the day that my very existence–even in productivity and confidence– is a distortion in itself. This is not normal. This was not a healthy baseline, and my bank accounts, THC levels, irritability, and dozens of scribbles in my notebook proved it. It’s waning a bit–as I write this post, I feel exhausted and a bit sad. But this is what I asked for. I want to grow as a person and become my highest self. That only comes with becoming extremely acquainted with your lowest, with your shadows. I’ve been diagnosed for a few years now, and December 2025 being the first time I’ve been able to recognize a hypomanic episode feels like a sad triumph. 

Earlier this month, in an impulsive attempt to curve an oncoming depressive episode, I scheduled an appointment with a mental health provider within network. I did my intake over the phone, but was more than convinced I wouldn’t make the appointment. It was December 5th, and the earliest they could get me in was December 23rd. Lucky me, I guess. The me on December 5th had no way of knowing she’d be hypomanic and desperately wanting an intervention by that time. Every day I wake up, I scan my brain and ask, ‘Is it over? Am I back to normal?’

But what is ‘normal’ for me?

How do ‘normal’ people live? And when this hypomania dies down, and I have to face the consequences of my actions during this period, does that mean I go back to being unmotivated and depressed? 

Or maybe I should consider medication? 

Right now, I feel I should focus on finding a new normal. This phase in my life is all about abandoning what I thought I knew–to jump timelines and shift my identity. Mental health, and the way I tend to mine, is near the top of the list.

From me to me, Godspeed.