My Journey to Bipolar: Part 2
For a long time, I debated with myself on whether to follow through with telling my story. I didn’t know where to begin or where to take it. Would anyone read it? How would people view me? Would anyone care? Most of all, would telling my story not only help me, but would it help others? Will my story give a voice to those who are hiding behind the stigma and shame of mental illness? It is my hope that it will.
Having finally found my voice and telling things from my vantage point, it is important for you to understand I am not taking this as an opportunity to place blame on others. Conversely, I want you to see how the signs of mental illness look different in everyone. The signs can be overlooked or even misdiagnosed. If left untreated, one’s life can be full of darkness, despair, sadness, anger, and hopelessness.
It’s cliché to say, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel. It may be hard to see at times and can look as though it is fading. The tunnel might seem like it is closing in on you to the point of having to get down and crawl on your hands and knees. But the journey is worth it.
Read Part 1
PART 2
The “terrible twos” is the term used to describe the quickly changing shifts in mood that occur in 2-year old children. These shifts can make it difficult for a parent, or caretaker, to handle a child. While I can’t confirm, I think it’s safe to assume I went through the “terrible twos.” Fast forward eighteen years and I entered what I like to refer to as the “terrible twenties.” There were three prominent events that occurred during this ten-year span that broke me down, but also lifted me up.
The first event occurred when I was a sophomore in college. By this time, the amount of people I talked to and hung out with had grown exponentially. I was majoring in theatre and it was nice meeting people with similar artistic interests. This was also the start of when I began to loosen the grip on my thoughts and feelings. I found alcohol to be a motivator that gave me the courage to socialize while also helping me deal with depression. During manic periods, I thought I could take on the world and do anything. There became a point where I was doing things with no regard for my own life. I was on a continuous high of racing thoughts, unlimited amounts of energy and thinking I was invincible. All this mixed together was the perfect storm for what happened next.
I don’t know what time it was, but sometime in the early morning on my 20th birthday, I drove my car into a ditch. Having been out till bar close and drinking limitless amounts of alcohol, I thought I was good to drive home. A demolished road sign and totaled car told me otherwise. The next memory I had was waking up on a hospital bed. After being released and having to face everyone around me, immense feelings of depression began to consume me. But not because I thought what I had done was wrong. It was because I lived. I was trying to find reasons to why my life was spared but found none. It was time to pick up and leave and continue running from my demons.
Tracers, 2008.
Image Credit: John Drouillard
Tracers, 2008.
Image Credit: John Drouillard
I dropped out of college after my junior year and moved to Los Angeles. I lived there for several years, taking acting classes and performing in shows at various theatres. I was being introduced to plays and playwrights I never would have discovered if it weren’t for the people I was meeting and acting with. Theatre helped me find a sense of purpose once again. But that sense of purpose was lost when I was not acting. The time between shows, when all I had was my custodial job to keep me busy, was costly. Without roles to prepare for and lines to memorize, it made it difficult to ignore the hell that was going on inside me. Mood swings were happening more frequently, sleepless nights were the norm and drinking was an everyday activity. When my thoughts weren’t racing, I was walking in a fog where I would frequently lose track of time and place. It was time to flee before people could see the extreme dualities of my personality.
Fuddy Meers, 2011.
Image Credit: Edgewood College
Our Town, 2012.
Image Credit: Edgewood College
My next stop was Madison, WI where I enrolled back into college, majoring in theatre. Things started off well just as they had in the past. I was meeting friends in theatre and enjoying classes; theatre, literature and philosophy were the highlights of my education. But things quickly fell apart on a frost-bitten day in December. With the sun shining bright, an argument with my girlfriend at the time spiraled out of control. I was experiencing a full manic episode; yelling, swearing and spewing insults to hurt her. It got to the point of her making threats against her life and mine. I was never concerned about what could happen to me since my twenties were dominated by thoughts and feelings of living a life without meaning. My concern was for her, so I made the decision to call the police.
When law enforcement arrived, my girlfriend and I were taken into separate rooms and asked what our versions of the incident was. Till this day, I don’t know what was said in the other room but after being questioned for what seemed like hours, I was the one who was arrested for disorderly conduct. I didn’t imagine me calling the police would result in my arrest. Life is funny that way.
It would be unfair of me to not take any blame for my arrest. The actions and words used toward each other during our final argument were vile. But our toxic relationship did not happen overnight and there were years of arguments before that one. It was time to go our separate ways. The breakup though, led to a chain of events that would exonerate me from my arrest. Harassing emails and texts from my now ex, began to flood my inbox and phone; threatening voicemails had become a daily occurrence. Saving all of this as evidence and handing over to my court appointed attorney, it proved to her and the judge a mistake was made in me being arrested. The veil had been lifted on the true nature of what had been going on in the relationship and the charges were dismissed. But, because it was clear I was dealing with things that were beyond my control and needed to be addressed immediately, I was required to go to therapy.
During this time, I had a complete lack of knowledge of therapy. My ideas of therapy were based on movies like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Girl, Interrupted. On top of that, I didn’t have health insurance, and despite working multiple jobs, I didn’t have the means to afford counseling. This meant that the only accessible therapist was on the college campus. The thought of classmates, work study employees I managed and teachers seeing me go to the personal counseling center terrified me. Turns out, the first therapist I ever saw at the personal counseling center would be one of the first people to save my life. It was her who introduced me to Bipolar. I had it. She educated me on the benefits of both therapy and medication and that despite this mental illness, I could still have a life.
Unfortunately, my time with the school therapist was limited to just two years. She took a position elsewhere at another university. I was happy for not only her, but for other students and people she would be educating and helping to change their lives. My happiness for her opportunity was also mixed with anger. I felt abandoned and unwanted. I couldn’t understand why the first important person in my life was being taken away from me.
Things would continue to get worse after graduating college. I still didn’t have health insurance which left me without medication and a therapist. Because I was still angry at my therapist for taking her new position, I cut off all contact with her even though she offered to give me recommendations of practices in the area. It took me nine years to get my footing on the right path and only a matter of months to get lost once again. Geoffrey Chaucer said, “All good things must come to an end.” Was he right?
