I laughed. I had heard the joke before, and there were many variations. It’s hard to be depressed about cognitive dysfunction when you don’t remember that you have it. There’s no need to worry because I will forget what’s there to worry about. Family, friends, medical professionals, and even I had quipped about my condition, but these days I prefer not to mention the TBI. I am meeting too many people too often, and I too easily forget who I have told.

The story was engaging, not for its whodunit thriller but for its haunting familiarity. Written as a piecemeal stream-of-consciousness, those words I could have written years ago when I was more aware of my disability in my everyday life, when I was still fighting for my mind, when I was so desolate at my loss. The harsh shifts in mood and mental clarity were pages from my own journal. The uncomfortable mix of sly wit and social detachment was reflected in my mirror. The profound disintegration of a knowing mind was a glimpse into my possible future.

Writing helps. Writing helps me focus, and shape these amorphous thoughts into a concrete chronicle. Writing helps me remember, not just details of the narrative but character of the narrator, every single day.

choochoobear replied to your chat: From A Survivor

I dunno. “What’s the best sexual experience you’ve had?” “I got hit by a car.” “Do you like cake?” “I got hit by a car.” “Any allergies?” “I got hit by a car.”

My mistake. Answer accuracy and coherence will vary.

This is PMS, not BAD or TBI. Rarely are these shifts in mood so obviously predictable, like the grinding gears of clicking clockwork. I routinely, rapidly cycle through highs and lows, but rarely is it this specific brand of irritability and desolation. This is not the elated energy of hypomania nor the insecure musings from memory loss. The clipped quips and the stifled sniffles are simply, thankfully, the announcement of menses. Rarely are my moods so simple.

My conditions more often create strange combinations: Chirpy chatter about disease and death, creative endeavors from depression and despair, savage libido, anxious insomnia. Bits of one slide seamlessly into another. The T swaps with the P, and sometimes the B joins the D. I am never sure which will I meet in the morning. BBD? TAS? Or would it be TMI?

When I woke, sun had already filled the room. I shut my eyes against the light, knowing I wouldn’t need an alarm again until September. I had seen the clock. It was already 5 AM.

I needed to get to work.

The palette of emotions spread behind my closed lids. Absent were the scarlet irritation pinching my tongue and the amber anxiety that made my hands quaver. Was I depressed? No, the Prussian blue wasn’t there to weigh upon my heart. But at my throat was the smokey grey, that dreadful insecurity. The past few weeks weren’t gentle to my confidence. I’d stopped wondering what I was good at to question what I was good for. Just at that thought, tiny dots of blue sprouted in the grey, darkening the shade. Too much blue, I knew, would lead to a deathly black.

In the past, even just last year, I would have been overwhelmed by the colors, until I was lambasted with black and blue. I knew this grey now. A calm reasoned ivory would keep the color light, and a joyful lemon yellow should keep my day bright. Though competition was tough in the job market, I was still competitive. If looking for work became too stressful, I was to relax with friends over the weekend. I released a sigh as the grey faded to translucence. Finally, I could see my saffron orange shine through.

Every day is a different array of moods and colors, but I have long stopped sorting their origins and implications. Grey is normal. The colorful eruptions throughout my days are normal. This acceptance helps me focus, helps me keep the blacks and blues at bay.

All I need is assurance, the confidence that I will still be here tomorrow despite the flares of reds and fogs of grey. I’ve been menstruating for sixteen years and I am still here. I’ve been cycling through hypomania and depression week after week and I am still here.

My inner world is deeply unstable, but I am not. Behind all these moods, my orange is still here. I am still here. I am still here.

There is still no answer to the depression causality dilemma, whether dark clouds gather from dark musings or depressive thoughts sprout from depressive moods. Sometimes, when I think of him, I turn dispirited. Sometimes when melancholy, I think of him. I’ve learned that it’s best to let these moods sit and shift without interference. Trying not to think about pink elephants only has you thinking about pink elephants. Simply live, and these clouds will move on.

But I’m still surprised at the strength of my emotions. Sorrow binds my chest. My heart pounds, straining against its ties. My breath sticks, trapped within my throat, and I gasp vainly for free air. The panic is frightening. Thoughts race and circle themselves like frenzied birds. Why do I still feel this way? Should I still have feelings for him? What if I shouldn’t? What should I do?

I am familiar with depression’s black spirals, after climbing so many of its steep steps, but anxiety is new to me. I have tred its slippery slopes before, during interviews and exams, but only now do I recognize fear’s dangerous gyre. And what do I fear most? Not loneliness. We are too familiar bedfellows. I am afraid of my vulnerability, that these cracks in my armor are too visible, that I am not as brave as I hope to be. I am afraid that I am not good enough, that I don’t deserve the life I am working so hard to earn.

Am I working hard enough to get over him? That is another question I will leave unexplored. I’ve learned that it’s best to speak about my ex rarely, briefly, humorously. My feelings about him make a taboo subject, but my feelings about me are unmentionables, too. They can sit together in the far reaches of my mind, their shadows imposing and undiscussed, these elephants in the room.

After weeks of fair weather, April arrived with snow sitting upon my windowsill. I watched large white flakes tumble past the glass planes to dust the grass plainly struggling across the lawn. Hours later, the snow would vanish, chased away by a cold shower. But grey skies and their heavy clouds would still linger. For New England, capricious weather is not unusual, but even I thought that a taste of winter after the tease of spring was at best a cruel joke.

Still, I walked into the city in suede heels and sequined skirt. No amount of snow would deter me from my weekend. But the sky continued to drizzle and the temperature continued to sink. I wasn’t sure when I first felt the cold bite at my thighs or when I noticed my breath expel in compact puffs of fog. Winter creeped under my clothes. Cold kissed my fingers, my nose, my nipples, my toes. His bed couldn’t keep me warm. Their rowdy company still left me chilled. Winter had nestled deep beneath my skin once more.

Monday was miserable. It was an effort to leave bed. Tuesday was one prolonged anxious afternoon as I asked for letters of recommendation. Wednesday morning, I saw blue skies again, but I still worried about the clouds on the horizon. I hadn’t seen the greys of depression in months. Even these past few weeks, I had been energetic, productive, active. The exhaustion was sudden. The anxiety was frightening. Were these warnings for my shifting moods? Or were these normal responses from one too many weekends out on the town?

Sam told me without telling me that I should take my medication. I hadn’t touched the pills in months. Busy with work and problems with insurance, I had let this health regimen lapse. But I reopened the bottle this morning. I couldn’t ignore his advice, the same that I had given so many times to so many others. My moods were unexpected but predictable. Further neglect could mean another, more serious trip to the hospital.

I swallowed the little white pills easily. I didn’t need water anymore. Outside my window, the sky was still a beautiful bright blue. Inside, silently, I prayed.

Stay, spring. Please stay.