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  • Writer's pictureTamar

Part 1: Hypomania & Candles

As I finished writing this series of blogs I noticed one of the candles had caught fire. The process of putting it out safely got me thinking how well it illustrated what I was writing about. Read to the end to make sense of that one...

I started writing this morning. Woke up with my mind buzzing and needing an outlet to stream it out somehow. The process of writing soothed it somewhat and I went out for coffee with the Hubster. Sadly the day progressed to me feverishly scouring second hand shops in what started as fun looking and quickly descended into the headachy, breathless, need to look at everything and buy stuff I only had an emergency overdraft for. I knew I wasn’t right, I restricted myself to just a few pounds per item. The day culminated with me needing to purchase a salted caramel fragranced candle for £4 from Aldi because I smelt one that was lit in a shop and I knew it was as good as a Yankee candle but without the £10 price tag. The Hubster knew I wasn’t right. He was trying to get me home, I was becoming more frantic, more aggravated, my head hurting more as it overthought each and every action.

The day culminated in me realising I needed tampons on the way home. We both couldn’t bear the thought of me in any more shops. He got out. The first shop didn’t have them. I became irritated as he returned with the wrong thing. I would get out and get my own damn tampons. Three shops and an argument later there were no tampons, but I had two bottles of coke and a violet scented candle. Hubster drove me home. We both knew I wasn’t right, in a hypomanic state. I felt like a terrible person. He dropped me home and diligently went off to a supermarket to get what I needed.

At home I looked in the mirror and was struck by my eyes. They were bright green, they seemed huge, they were full of pain. I felt shame over not stopping and coming home after the lovely coffee and cake. I had ignored the warning signs and carried on relentlessly. My head hurt so much.

I have retreated to my bed again, safe and away from stimulus, in the £5 brand new bargain sleepsuit thing I bought in Charity shop number one (Edit: it's called a onesie. Duh.). It’s like a giant babygro. The sizing is rather mean and it’s nowhere near a M/L, but even so it’s snuggly and comfy even though my stomach is bloated and I look like I’m 3 months pregnant thanks to Mother Nature. I’m losing a lot of blood, a bad thing as my iron levels were 2 when checked a few weeks ago. As an idea of how bad that is, they should not go below 15 and the maximum is 200. Or was that 100? Either way, my levels were lower than some women who've experienced haemorrhage after childbirth or collapsed when out and about, so not a great combination.

I’m now surrounded by candles, of every fragrance and colour. They feel soothing as I return to writing out the thoughts in my mind, which have to slow down as I write them. The Hubster has made us food. I can’t bear to leave the room, with its quiet, the candles, the bed. He is bringing it up to me, and I feel terrible for shutting him out, for being a nightmare. He’s being kind and checking I’ve taken my meds. Put extra meatballs on my pasta in an attempt to help with the whole iron thing.

I didn’t catch myself in time today but it is better than I fared last night.

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