Mood Ring
A True Experience of Mania
By Alyssa McHugh
(Dave Hoefler / Unsplash)
I haven’t slept in three days
I can feel the unsteady beat of my heart, the taste of metal on my lips, and the invisible whispers in my ears. I realize two things; I am hypomanic, and I forgot to eat dinner last night. If only I had a ring to let me know which of my moods was on queue. I am far from having a grasp on the hurricane that is Bipolar Disorder. It constantly picks up and throws down my impulsivity and memory in its path.
Mood: Razzmic Berry
The synchronicity of my steps next to others distracts me as I walk to work. I don’t remember the 10-minute commute, but I know it happened. Maybe it was because I saw a woman who looked like my best friend in high school. I had gotten a call from her in our senior year announcing her plan to use a bottle of pills to end the grief. The streets were dark at 1am, and my hands shook from the adrenaline. I felt like a thief in the night, entering the garage by code and quietly sneaking through the house to her room. We sat in silence until the sound of morning. Things were never the same after that. My closest friend had shut me and the world out. The abandonment stung, leaving a fear-shaped kiss goodbye.
Mood: Midnight Black
I step into the lobby of my work’s building and pass by my usual breakfast spot. It takes less than a second to decide I’m not hungry. The office kitchen is empty, leaving me with my racing thoughts. It isn’t until a desk drawer slams that I tensely snap back. Heat rushes over me and I feel an uneasy prickling sensation creep over my face. My now-normal reaction to trauma flashbacks.
I knew it wasn’t my fault for going to the bathroom alone that fateful St. Patrick’s Day. Or that a group of guys were waiting outside of the door. Or for freezing when one of them aggressively grabbed low without consent. I couldn’t manage the words to tell anyone when I got back to my friends — a decision that would later haunt me. All I could focus on was the disgusting stale smell and sight of green beer splattered across the bar floor. I wish I knew then not to internalize the trauma for so many years.
Mood: Terracotta Sand
Looking out of my office’s floor-to-ceiling window reminds me how lucky I am to have gone to school in the city. I knew from the minute I arrived that this was where I belonged. I was cocky, blissfully unaware, and on top of the world. My salvation was a later-to-be 8-year-relationship. His presence was addictive, and my dopamine was on high.
Fast forward to our late twenties when I racked up thousands in debt, didn’t sleep for days, and planned out three new businesses before crashing into a month-long depression. I finally went to a therapist, at his persistence, and was prescribed some pills to set my chemicals right. “You can’t be Bipolar,” he snickered. “People who are Bipolar are violent, and you’re not violent. You just need to find some motivation.” I knew at that moment that I would never receive the support I needed. My once sweet dopamine high turned into a stale, rotten apple.
Mood: Burnt Yellow
My ears ring at the sound of desk chairs rolling around. My co-workers’ words become chaotic gibberish. Misunderstood, left behind, failure. My mind slips further and further into silent confusion, alone with a brain that is spit-firing differently than my peers. Overstimulated and frustrated, my stomach turns from taking my morning pills without food. I do the best I can to keep up, leaving lines of unfinished sentences in my notebook.
Mood: Hurricane Gray
The 147 bus speeds by on my walk home, causing the prickling sensation on my face to reappear. I hold back throwing up as an unwanted memory pulls forward. It was a muggy, summer day a few years before and I was commuting home. A sharp turn forced my two-foot stance on the bus to one, clutching my hand tighter around the damp, overhead bar. Something was poking behind me, but it was too tight to turn around and see. I finally realized what was happening and froze. Nowhere to go, nowhere to move away from him. Thankfully, my sweat held the thin fabric of my dress down my thighs. I grabbed my bag and swung it around to the back. It worked, at his dismay, and I got off at the next possible stop. A 10-minute experience shattered years of trust. Once again, I kept the trauma to myself.
Mood: Fire Brick
The state of my closet consumes the rest of my night. Piles thrown over the moving box that I never unpacked, proof that my last depressive episode happened. I snap out of organizing two hours later. Unsure if I ate dinner or took my nighttime pills, I decide I don’t care and get ready for bed. Hours pass, the moon retires, leaving pink and orange bursting through the horizon.
I haven’t slept in four days
This piece was written and shared during the IDONTMIND Writing Workshop. Learn more about our free, nine-week course and be the first to know about the next workshop here. Visit Mental Health Connecticut’s YouTube channel for a video version of Alyssa’s story.
Alyssa McHugh is a lifestyle blogger and writer living in downtown Chicago. She's passionate about advocating for mental health awareness and loves attending local events, watching crime shows, and hanging out with her two cats.
