My Journey to Bipolar: Part 3
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 and part 2
PART 3
For 29 years, I always felt as though I was running from something rather than running toward something. That’s a lot of mileage and I would continue my perpetual fleeing into my 30’s. As my 20’s were coming to an end, I received my bachelor’s degree in theatre but lost my first ever therapist. Compound that with losing access to medication and I was quickly falling back into an unstable and self-destructive mindset. I began to sabotage relationships with friends and teachers, going on a barrage of erratic behavior; instigating fights and even hitting a parked car during an episode of rage. Thinking once again that moving and cutting those I had befriended out of my life, I fled to Chicago.
Accompanying me to Chicago was my girlfriend at the time. Like my previous relationship, it should have ended sooner than it did. We met at college in Madison and graduated the same year. During our collegiate years, all the way up to breaking up not too long after moving to Chicago, I was not a great boyfriend. I was constantly judgmental, confrontational and unwilling to change or seek help. I finally pushed her to her breaking point, and understandably she broke up with me.
The one thing that was going well my first year in Chicago was theatre. I was cast in the first two shows I auditioned for and for a couple months of each show, during rehearsals and performances, I had my outlet from the chaos within and outside of me. But, simultaneously, my drinking picked back up with most of my free time being spent at bars. If I was feeling depressed, I would sit alone and drink. I became a regular and often the bartenders knew what to make me before I took a seat. They also quickly learned that I was a patron who just needed my drinks made with little to no conversation; a great bartender is intuitive of their regulars. If I was manic and on a high, I would socialize with random people and buy drinks for anyone who talked to me. Not surprisingly, I never saw any of those people again. I like to refer to those interactions as “quickie friendships.”
One individual I did take a liking to and made a conscious effort to develop a real friendship with was a young woman at my first job in Chicago. It was at a restaurant we both happen to get a job at after moving to the city; we both moved to Chicago in the same month of that year. To clarify, when I say, “conscious effort to develop a real friendship,” this entails me helping her out as much as I could during our shifts together or picking up her shifts if she ever needed any off. I made sure to say as little about myself as possible and made sure to listen keenly when she talked about friends, family, hobbies, etc. She was genuine and sweet and despite the unbreakable wall I had put up around myself, I got the sense she wanted to get to know me as a person. But I believed I was a person she should not want to know.
After months of working together, Julie and I had formed a working friendship. Yes, the young woman’s name who was genuine and sweet is Julie. This was great for me since I am terrible with remembering names. What wasn’t great is that she eventually left the restaurant to take a design position at a local Chicago business. And what had happened with my therapist was happening all over again. But rather than allow myself to be defeated and cope with my sadness through booze, I took a leap of faith and texted Julie one night to see if she wanted to grab some drinks. To my surprise, because I obviously assumed the answer would be no, she said yes to my invitation. I was so excited and taken aback that when she asked when, without hesitation I said that night. I would proceed to ask her out for drinks two more nights in a row after this.
What began as a working relationship was slowly working its way toward a friendship. Possibly more.
