When you live with a mental illness you understand depression. You know how much depression hurts, the damage it can cause, and the fear that results from it. But it can be hard to distinguish a state of sadness from that of depression. And it be scary not knowing if you may be experiencing a depression relapse or, with any luck, just feeling plain sad.

I had a tough year.  I typically have a lower mood once October kicks me in the ass, but this year was worse. I watched seven seasons of Lost in one month--granted I had never seen it before. But still! I even went as far as to abandon writing this blog. I was not thinking clearly. Writing this blog is an important part of my life. As usual, you are probably wondering where I am going again. Yes, the woman who wrote a memoir on mental illness and addiction should perhaps stop talking about her own misery. But this morning--back on my feet again--I remembered that time and the words "solitary confinement" came to mind.

I know. I know. You might be thinking, "Is she serious? I did not lose my entire memory!" Yes, I am serious and I will work to explain why.

I came up with this topic when I was in a state of serious depression--less than a month ago. I was certain I would never become well. Those of you who live with a mental illness understand this on a very deep and personal level. While I was glued to the couch I started thinking about how much time I spend exhausted--some days less and some more. Mental exhaustion and physical (or both) can define a large part of our lives. Without further explanation (coffee in hand) let's explore this topic.

Its 6:59 on Thursday morning. I've been drinking coffee and procrastinating online for an hour; the radio is always on and I don't usually hear it. I just like background noise. That's the hyperactive part of me. More than one thing always needs to be happening. It's pretty irritating.

Mental Illness and relapse go hand in hand. Sort of like addiction and relapse. The statistics for both are rather dire: relapse, at some point in our recovery, often occurs. Having said that, there are some damn lucky folks who become stabilized and never become unstable again. I hope they recognize how lucky--how blessed--they are. But in this post we are not talking about those who live a life of sustained recovery. We are focusing on those of us who falter from time to time--falter and pick ourselves back up. The majority of us.

My last blog focused on the importance of not diagnosing your mental health symptoms yourself! This blog will focus on not treating symptoms of relapse without consulting with your mental health care team first. Yes, I know, this post might seem a little boring but it's important so please keep reading--note: you can leave me a comment stating you fell asleep around 300 words. I will refrain from being offended.

When you live with a chronic mental illness you may experience periods of relapse. Side-note: Not everyone who lives with a mental illness relapses but for those of us who do, the desire to diagnose ourselves and, in connection, attempt to treat our symptoms is tempting. And it is exceptionally dangerous.

When I think of mental illness--my journey sprinting through life alongside it-- I think of the image below. The famous Two Masks. I painted a picture of it, framed it, and gave it to my mother a couple of years ago. The irony was not lost on her. It hangs in the hallway; laughing at me. The masks represent bipolar disorder to me. They represent emotion on a whole--the entire spectrum. Like many people living with chronic mental illness, it's hard to find the parts that define the middle; the sort of happy bits that made us smile but were fleeting.

Do you remember when we were kids? Before life smacked us upside the head and screamed for us to wake-up? Before we realized life wasn't easy--once our innocence was gone. I remember how excited I was, five or six years old, sitting under the Christmas tree and shaking my presents. I would take my gifts and separate them from my two siblings. They would do the same. We all had our piles; each wrapped with ribbons and sometimes a bow.