Welcome to mania, a place I often visit.

It's 3 am and once again, I am not sleeping. I'm tired, certainly, but I am not sleeping. My mind is racing around again at 2000 miles per hour. I want to sleep with every fiber of my being. My ambien hasn't helped and I knew it wouldn't. When I get this way, I feel compelled to stay awake. I feel like something is going to happen to me or my family if I don't. It is my duty to stay awake. I can sleep during the day, but not now. During the day my children are at school or work. My husband is tucked safely away in Chicago.

And I...I reside firmly in mania.

This happens to me a lot after a crash. I am used to it. I don't like being used to it because it makes me feel hollow, less human. I am wide awake despite being up at 7 am this morning. I can't watch television, I get too caught up. I can't read a book because I can't sit still long enough to engage in that. I can't just shut off. I try. I listen to myself breathing and the more I do, the more sure I am that I am going to die. If I don't stay awake, something horrible will befall me or my children. I am compelled to stay awake.

So here I am, blogging at 3am.

My nerves are so on edge right now. My muscles ache from being so tensed up. My jaw keeps clenching and I swallow hard constantly. This is the manic I am used to...the paranoia and the fear. I don't fear for myself so much as I do for my children. I check on them frequently. I make them leave their doors open so I can look in on them. No big deal for the 11 year old, but the 20 year old has an issue with it. I can understand. It's not her problem. It's mine.

I am hyperventilating even as I write this. Too much oxygen to the brain and it makes me feel faint. I like this feeling. It's like legally getting high. I miss my mania when I am in the throes of a deep depression. Then, when it comes along again, I wonder why I missed it so much. I see that I have a terrible time staying focused on any one task.

It's gotten incredibly hard for me to keep a job.

My doctor, the primary care, says "we don't put 40 year olds on disability because of bipolar disorder". But, if he knew how debilitating this actually was for me, he would reconsider. I don't want disability. I want the ability to function like a normal human being would. I am either mad dashing around like a lunatic, or I am curled up in a fetal position, hiding from the light of day. In either instance, it's exhausting.

I wonder how I ever kept up with myself before the medication. I was so deeply troubled back then and I can recognize it now. Some things have changed for the better, but I also believe the ignorance is bliss. My diagnosis has become my crutch for so many things. I chalk every emotion up to it. I don't feel human anymore...just a shell that is lead around by emotion. I cry for no reason. I laugh at inappropriate times. I make jokes when I should be somber. I shun others in favor of being alone.

And alone is probably the most dangerous of all.

When I am alone, I start thinking of things that I don't want in my head. I plot murders. I am intrigued by the whole forensic process and feel I could commit the perfect crime. I start to think about going out to bars or clubs, meeting random people and perfecting my craft. I am no murderer. I am a nurse. I save lives, not take them. And yet, when I am manic, I cannot function reliably. I scare myself. I take outrageous doses of medication just to see how far I can push the envelope. Each time, the dose gets higher and higher. I love to tempt fate...

one day, it's going to catch up to me.

For right now, I am going to go back into my bed and lay there, watching the hours tick by. Before long, it will be 7am and time to wake my son for school. Then, I will come home and do nothing...or everything. It's hard to know from day to day.

I never know who I am going to be when I wake up.