8 1/2 years ago, I crawled on my hands and knees, weeping softly, and said the bravest three words I’ve ever uttered, “I need help.”
I didn’t feel brave. I felt broken, hopeless, fragile, small, and most of all, ashamed.
After I told the nurse my plan, it was decided. They took my purse, my phone, my shoelaces, and the drawstring from my hooded sweatshirt. They stripped me of my belongings. I was so hopeless, it didn’t matter. All I wanted was to sleep. That was my plan. To go to sleep.
After a day and a half of sleep, waking up only for meds, and to pee, I met my first roommate. She said her mom told her she had demons. That she was a demonic creature. She hoped the Bible would help her be better. She carried it around the place but I never saw her open it.
It was her last day. I still wonder if the Bible helped. I also wonder if her mom maybe needed to open that bible too.
I barely remember the doctor. I do remember crying when he told me Wellbutrin would be the med to bring me out of my depression. I told him I had already tried it a few years ago and it made me better at first, wonderful in fact. But then, a switch flipped and all I could feel was anger. The road rage was the worst. Surely that wasn’t who I was supposed to be? He wrote something in his notebook. More questions. More meds added to the cocktail.
The dreaded word. Bipolar. My family doctor had already brought it up to me a few months prior. I was taking a low dose of an SSRI. Most of the medications over the years blurred together in my mind. A carousel of pill bottles. I would take them for awhile, feel better, feel good, feel euphoric, then get angry with an energy that could only be described as frenetic. Onto the next bottle.
The doctor asked me if I had seen a psychiatrist. I had. He was in jail for trading drugs to a few of his patients for “favors.” The man was an enigma. Going to him made me feel less crazy. He was always puttering around his office in a disheveled button-down shirt and dingy looking socks. His filing system was Manila folders piled on every flat surface in the room. He also ran a suboxone clinic out of his office. Sometimes he would forget when suboxone night was supposed to happen and he would schedule me an appointment at the same time. Yet he would preach to me, “No narcotics.” No wonder the guy missed the diagnosis. He was too busy slinging legal heroin and preaching “No narcotics, not even for labor or dental work.”
8 days. That’s how long I spent in the hospital. It was kind of a blur. My hair was so dry from using only shampoo. One could “win” a small bottle of conditioner.
My parents came to visit. I imagine my mom had to coach my dad on what not to say to me. He did well. They both told me how much they loved me. For the record, I never doubted anyone’s love. Only my worthiness. My brother, Nate, and my sister in law, Amanda visited me. I think I assured them I was ok. That I was on my way to being ok anyway.
Now that a second doctor had confirmed the dreaded diagnosis, the jig was up. Bipolar. It sent shivers down my spine. But also, it had cleared up a lot of past behaviors and relationship issues I had with people. As young as 13, I could remember times of deep despair and instances of pure euphoria. During high school, I was relatively quiet. But every now and then, I got a burst of excitement, a bubbling over desire to talk. I’m certain it mystified my classmates when I would inadvertently come out of my shell for a day or so.
Really, bipolar is a misnomer. It gives a sense that there is a clear line between two moods. A dichotomy of personalities. It’s not that. It’s more of a cycle of feelings between depression and mania. Every one has cycles of highs and lows. Every one. But, chances are, you’ll never reach my highest high (unless you use a substance) and you’ll never succumb to my lowest low.
Bipolar is not who I am. It’s something I have. The last thing I want is sympathy. I’m looking for empathy, not just for my struggles, but for the struggles of every person who is fighting a mental illness. The strongest adversary in this fight is the stigma, the idea that I, or those like me, are somehow damaged, crazy, or scary.
8 years of stability has taught me that this fight is not won behind closed doors. Whispers are damaging. Ignorance is costly. Outright bullying can be deadly. Please, if you can’t be an ally in this fight, the least you can do is not be an adversary.
The most important thing I learned is that suicidal feelings are temporary; if you can find even just a sliver of hope, embrace that light. Crawl on your hands and knees if you have to. If you can't speak, then whisper, "I need help."
I still struggle with cycling mood changes; however, the hills and valleys are much closer together now. The people closest to me know the signs of a mood shift. I’m so grateful for my family and friends. This battle is not one that should be faced alone.
I matter. You matter.
If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts or have a plan, please call or text 988.
