I was in Ireland, on a bus full of journalists and two monsignors. The sun was shining, though the day was cool. We were on our way to some scenic inn where there would be a fragrant peat fire and servings of Irish coffee.
The guide was playing a mixtape through the bus’s sound system. The song playing was “All God’s Critters,” by Bill Staines, a folk song I knew quite well. Here’s the chorus:
All God’s critters got a place in the choir
Some sing low, some sing higher
Some sing out loud on the telephone wires
And some just clap their hands, or paws, or anything they got now
I was happy, with that golden glow of joy I had felt so seldom in my life. I was peaceful, with a sense of everything being put in place especially, just for me. I was contented, beyond glad to be where I was and doing what I was doing.
Then one of the other people on the bus asked the guide to turn off the tape. It was weird, she said, and didn’t make sense.
I don’t know whether she didn’t like folk music, or Bill Staines, or that song in particular. Perhaps she thought it was a children’s song. Perhaps she thought we should be listening to something authentic and Irish.
But the guide turned off the tape. And my golden glow was gone. I was still on a bus in Ireland, traveling through sunshine toward a scenic little inn somewhere.
But my feeling of well-being was gone. It was like the breeze had blown it out through the windows of the bus. Everything became plain.
I didn’t do anything about it at the time – ask to wait till the song was over or say it was one of my favorite songs – though now I like to think I would.
Was it hypomania that settled briefly on me like an aura? I hadn’t been introduced to the concept then, but I think that’s what it was. Peace, joy, well-being, a sense of being right where I fit. That could have been just regular happiness, I suppose. But it felt different, and special, and exhilarating.
And it was so fleeting. Once it was gone, it wouldn’t come back. I enjoyed other parts of the trip, but never recaptured that singular moment, that uplifting rush. Once it was gone, it was gone.
Even a regular good mood is hard for me to hang onto. If someone around me is grumpy or cranky, I find it hard not to get sucked into the downward spiral. If they’re angry, forget it. There’s no holding on to any good feeling then. My natural instinct is to cringe, and to apologize.
Or at least it was. As I have slowly gotten stronger and more stable, I do not cower the way I used to. I remove myself from the sucking drain of a person or situation if I can.
Going into the kitchen to make tea is a strategy I have often used. It’s also a grounding method I can use when things are spinning out of control. When everything around me is chaos, the simple, familiar, soothing action of heating a pan of soup can bring me closer to stability. Whether I really want tea or soup is not the question. Making it for someone else may even be more calming.
Right now I am pretty far from hypomania. I am fighting off two infections, plus the medications and debilitation that go with that. But at least now I know what hypomania feels like when it hits, and maybe I can hang onto it for just a little bit longer the next time.