The signs of hypomania are creeping in to the edges of my brother’s consciousness. He says he feels a mixture of “extremely well” — note the telltale extremity — and “borderline…” Sleep becomes increasingly difficult. He says the longer he stays awake, the harder it is to sleep. Or, as he puts it: “The further I travel through the day, the less I have the ability to rest… it’s unnatural.” The 50mg of pericyazine helps; so does the authority of his wife, Maria, who tells him not to go for walks at 2am. “Maria is my leash,” he says. She is the one who talks him down to sleep — or “gentling down,” as in a thoroughbred race hore. And in the morning, he “feels great.” I tell him this all sounds like he is not so “well.” He replies. “I disagree that I’m high. I’ve got to believe that I’m well. I’ve got to hold on to the idea of who I am. What is Archie Linklater when he’s well.”
I go back to the text Archie sent me last night.
“The reason I get ill (high or low) is that if I was normal 4 any length of time I would be too incredible as a person.”
“In what way incredible?” I text back.
“I was being lighthearted,” he replies, shrugging off my enquiry. But then he adds: “In my adult life I haven’t been well for long enough 2 know.”
