Here’s a story I’ve never shared: About two years ago I bought a new car, okay I did so with a loan, but I still put my ass in a new class of manic, even for me. Brand new. I didn’t even test drive it. Nothing. They pulled it up and I signed the papers. Even with horrible interest rates due to my terrible credit rating (you know, the well known spending/debt aspect of bipolar). Regardless of these risks, and I did understand them, I still just bought it. It was pretty. It was new. It would be mine.
Had I gotten inside I would have realized it wasn’t the right car for me. It doesn’t “fit” quite right and it has zero in fancy features. Not that every car needs to have built-in GPS but I was awfully used to it in my prior car, a Honda Odyssey minivan. That thing had a ton of features but I didn’t take good care of it so I eventually needed a replacement. Heck, I even hate that “my new car” has fabric seats so it can get stained – yay? Something that I really can’t stand. I probably would have walked away or at least bought something different. Maybe.
Anyway, that night I drove home in a beautiful blue suv with the worst case of buyer’s remorse I’ve ever had. I should have been flying high and excited about my new car. Wouldn’t other people be if they bought a new vehicle? Reveling in the new car smell and the “newness” of everything around them. Learning the signals and the windshield wipers and the radio and all that fun stuff. But not me, I knew I had gone above and beyond anything I’d done manic in the past and yet I just kept driving. I could have turned around and nullified the entire deal but I didn’t. Why?
Because I would look like an idiot, I told myself. Because I would have to confess my stupidity and make “them” look at me with sympathy. Because I wasn’t sure I would be able to get out from under the loan I’d agreed to. So many more reasons I won’t go into but they were definitely swirling inside my head turning what should have been a wonderful moment into something ugly and unpleasant. Anxiety swirled all around me and all I could think of was how much I’d f’d up. It was all my fault. I wanted to throw up. I had failed at impulse control. Again. This time I’d gotten myself into a situation of such magnitude there was no way to get out of it that wouldn’t be overly difficult.
Right after and to this day I regret every signature. I know I am very grateful for a universe that allowed me to have a functional and beautiful car but often I just feel a slew of emotions when I swing open the door. Every time I climb in to drive I am reminded of my illness. The guilt in those moments just makes me nauseous. And it is all my own fault.
I knew all of this and yet I still did it. I. Did. It. Anyway.
And that, my friends, is professional-grade mania.