It’s hard for me to admit when I’m not doing well. For the last eight years, the closest I’ve had to feeling a symptom of manic depression is… I can’t think of it. I can literally not think of a symptom. I’m not bragging. I’ve been lucky. Amazingly, crazy fucking lucky.
I am on half of my lithium dosage. After four days of half of my lithium dosage – a small 450 mg – I can feel it. I can feel the tickle at my brain, a whisper in my thoughts. It’s crafty, that tickle. It’s so slight, strangely enticing and incredibly unnerving. I know that my new drug – the preferred drug of bipolar, soon-to-be-pregnant women everywhere – is sitting at a very small dosage. I knew that I would have to increase the dosage at some point. I know it.
It was silly, thinking that I wouldn’t feel a slight tear in the fabric I’ve been diligently weaving for almost a decade. I have manic depression, even though I’ve forgotten what the symptoms feel like. So, I’m admitting it. I called – well, truth be told – I emailed my doctor. I’m increasing my dosage of the new drug. This isn’t failure; I haven’t done anything wrong.
In fact, instead of feeling like I took a wrong step, I’m going to revel in the knowledge that I am well enough to catch a tickle. I noticed a whisper. I’m going to continue being fine. Lithium (wannabe) pregnancy: I can do this.