For years, I’ve longed to go to Venice. I’ve been to Europe several times, but for some reason Venice has always eluded me. I thought I’d spend my honeymoon there, but then I never wound up getting married. So I’ve relegated Venice to my bucket list, to do before I die.
Should we really wait for death to present as a possibility before we act on our dreams?
If I’m to be completely honest, I have to admit that the main reason I haven’t just gone to Venice by myself is the often-precarious state of my mental health. Travel is always hard for me, not just because of the inherent stresses of packing, planning, etc., but because of the time zone changes. They wreak havoc with my medication and my sleep schedule, both of which must be rigorously maintained when one has bipolar disorder.
I know this all too well, because years ago when my first book Manic was published, I traveled to Florida for a writers’ conference where I was booked from sunup to long past sunset. For six days, I didn’t get more than a couple hours of sleep per night, and nothing I took or tried made a whit of difference. By the fourth day, I found myself frantically staring into the mirror, trying to decipher who was staring back. Nothing about me looked familiar. My face, my eyes, my body, my hair—they all belonged to some stranger I’d never met before.
I later learned I’d suffered a dissociative episode, brought on by too much stress and lack of sleep.
Not long after that horrific experience, I was invited to do a book tour in Amsterdam. Apparently Manic was doing well there, and there were lots of opportunities for me to speak. You must understand, I adore Amsterdam—it’s the locus of the art I love best in the world. I desperately wanted to go, but when I presented the opportunity to my psychiatrist, he said, “You’re too symptomatic. I can’t keep you stable that far away.”
I agonized over the decision, and in the end I let fear make up my mind for me. It’s been one of the biggest regrets of my life.
So for over 20 years, I haven’t traveled for pleasure—it’s just seemed like too big a risk. What would I do if I got manic in some exotic locale, far away from all the resources I’ve so carefully put into place over the years? I shudder to think how much money I’d spend, and of the potential consequences of a bout of hypersexuality. Or what if I got so depressed I couldn’t move, as is often the case with me? How would I ever get back home if I wasn’t even able to get out of bed? And who would save me from the lure of suicide?
Travel requires careful judgment, and judgment is the very first thing I sacrifice when I’m in the throes of my bipolar illness.
No, it seemed far more prudent just to wait—wait until I’m so stable there’s no longer any risk. Wait until a new medication is invented that takes all the potential danger away. Wait and wait, for an uncertain tomorrow. How sad is that? Once again, I was allowing fear to take command, relegating happiness to some far-off someday that may never come at all.
Bipolar disorder can rob you blind, but only if you let it.
I’ve finally taken a long, hard look at myself and realized I’ll probably never get more stable than I am right now. My medications are securely in place. I’ve spent decades learning about my triggers, what my symptoms feel like coming on, and how to get the help I need if I do have a breakthrough mood swing. I’ve consulted repeatedly with my doctors about the best way to handle my meds and my sleep, to keep me on an even keel despite the time zone changes.
I’ve done my homework; it’s time to play. While I can’t be absolutely certain that I won’t have another bipolar episode, this much I know for sure: if I continue to wait for a miracle cure, I may well be too old to endure the stresses—or fully experience the joys—of overseas travel. I may just wait myself out of a life.
So take this, bipolar: my new partner and I just booked a trip to Venice. Someday is today.
Are You Putting Off Life Because of Mental Illness?
14
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05.02.2024
For years, I’ve longed to go to Venice. I’ve been to Europe several times, but for some reason Venice has always eluded me. I thought I’d spend my honeymoon there, but then I never wound up getting married. So I’ve relegated Venice to my bucket list, to do before I die.
Should we really wait for death to present as a possibility before we act on our dreams?
If I’m to be completely honest, I have to admit that the main reason I haven’t just gone to Venice by myself is the often-precarious state of my mental health. Travel is always hard for me, not just because of the inherent stresses of packing, planning, etc., but because of the time zone changes. They wreak havoc with my medication and my sleep schedule, both of which must be rigorously maintained when one has bipolar disorder.
I know this all too well, because years ago when my first book Manic was published, I traveled to Florida for a writers’ conference where I was booked from sunup to long past........
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