I’ve been sober 981 days today. I’ve been sane for considerably fewer. I’d be hard-pressed to say when it starting getting better, but if forced, I’d pick when I started meds–though it was months before anything resembling sanity took hold. So, maybe not January 18. Let’s go with the day I ran the Portland half-marathon: May 19, 2013. Why? Because I can. I had recently increased to a dosage I’ve remained at since. And because I ran the fucking race dressed as Wonder Woman.
Ok, so maybe that isn’t my best example of sanity…but, it’s a date, and it was 108 days ago. If we had chips to mark our time in sanity, I’d have three.
My birthday (the natal one, not the sober one) is typically the herald of a fall decline. I probably first noticed that in these pages. I was nearly always melancholy at my birthday. Is this normal? I’ve no idea. I know I am not alone in this, but I’ve no idea how “normal” it is–especially unlinked from a fear of getting older. Surprised? Yes. Afraid? No.
The shorter days play hell with my moods, and this is the first year I’ve known why, though the diagnosis we were working with last December, when I last bothered to write here, was modified around that same time to Bipolar I (I go for the big dogs, thank you)–additional proof that I am batshit crazy. That I am aware of the “why” doesn’t really change the likelihood of an impending depression (and, in fact, I can say with some confidence that said depression is knocking on the proverbial door), but at least I can see it coming and know what it is. Whether I can do anything other than–as a friend says–lay on the floor and be sane and sober–is another matter entirely.
If that is all I got that day, that’s all I got. Feel free to wave.
Traditionally, I run the Virginia Beach half-marathon on Labor Day. I missed it this year because, in my efforts to stave off the arrival of my annual fall depressive cycle (which needs a name. Suggestions are welcome), I overtrained and screwed up my Achilles’ tendon.
Again, go me. Spring: run half-marathon at PR. Fall: yeah, well…you know. And not being able to run plays additional hell with my moods. (Clarification for those who have to live, work, or otherwise deal with me: I’ve got this covered. Not running, but I do have something.)
And, in related news, 38 will involve more fabulous live shows (complete with top-notch spectacle–screw Aristotle and his “less artistic”. Spectacle is amazing, necessary, and Avenged does it with unabashed style and excitement). 37 did provide two–such as the one to the right and the day in Montreal that followed. Heavy MTL was just…let me put it this way, when I say my feet were not in contact with the ground–that I was floating–during Avenged Sevenfold’s show, I am not being hyperbolic. I really was not in contact with the ground for most of that show. A terribly impressive pit, that one.
But, for whatever challenges 37 dished out–and it did, with ferocity, the year wasn’t exactly a failure, and I have to remember that–I did finally find out what was “wrong”. 37 brought me adventures with great friends in scattered places, Disneyland and glitter ears, and Foofighters & Pearl Jam & Duff. I spent nearly 5 weeks total on the west coast, and most of that time was bathed in sunlight. I short, I’ve been around long enough to know that expecting up, down, or stable is unreasonable. 38 will be what it will be.
It just might have a few more pits (the ones at live shows, not the ones in a Poe short story) in it. And that, my friends, is the best sanity-inducer my money can buy.
Thank you, thank you, thank you–for all of you.