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.

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.