My Journey to Bipolar: Part 1
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.
PART 1
I can’t tell you when I first heard of Bipolar Disorder. Growing up in a household that does not believe in mental illness shelters you from this type of information. Random outbursts as a child or going through phases of quietness and/or sadness were overlooked or dismissed. Whether wrong or right, I was taught to pray to God to get me through tough times. I never believed or accepted this way of thinking. It wasn’t to be rebellious or cause trouble. I was a child who developed my own beliefs and thoughts very early on. Curiosity and thinking outside the box are traits I have always had and still do till this day. This is not to say I think or believe religion is a bad thing. I have grown up with and met many religious people of various faiths and have respect for all those who believe in what they do.
In elementary school, around 2nd and 3rd grade, I noticed myself experiencing constantly changing feelings. I didn’t have long periods of one type of emotion; frustration, sadness, anger, and happiness cycled rapidly. While many kids will speak to their parents about these things, I never did. I can’t explain why, but I never wanted to talk to anyone. If anything, I just wanted to be left alone. Despite my confusion about what I was experiencing, school was never a challenge and most of the time I was bored. Straight A’s were normal. There were B’s here and there but never anything below that.
I was excelling outside of the class as well. Soccer was my sport of choice and was playing year-round since I was six; outdoor, indoor, summer camps. I had become so good that I was playing with kids two years older than me. Despite the on-field success, I never fully enjoyed playing. When games and tournaments were won, along with taking first place in many summer camp challenges, the thrill and happiness of victory was never present.
It was in junior high when thoughts of sadness really began to consume me. A lot of this had to do with the fact I didn’t want to attend the school I was sent to. I would have preferred to go to the one that was roughly 10 minutes from where I lived. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a say in the matter. My parents signed me up to take a test to get into the bio-math program at this junior high. This was an accelerated program for students and spots were limited. I was selected to be part of the program and for the next two years, I traveled 20-30 minutes by bus to the other end of the city to a school and program I wanted nothing to do with.
The only thing I really remember about junior high was the continued feelings of sadness. This was five days a week, mornings and afternoons, for two years. In the beginning, it was incredibly hard to hold back tears. Anyone who paid attention would have seen me with red eyes full of water, waiting to burst. But I never shed a tear. It was during these two years that I became a master at hiding my feelings and thoughts. I would have finished top of my class if there was a course offered in “Emotional Restraint.” This is not something I say with pride or to sound tough. Holding back the tears only pushed my feelings down to a well that had no end.
The sadness I felt during those two years in junior high quickly turned to anger during my high school years. The summer leading into my freshman year, I quit playing soccer. My disdain for playing finally boiled over. Thinking it was a good idea at the time, I decided to join the football team in hopes of fitting in and making friends; something I have always struggled with. That didn’t go so well. My position was kicker, and this proved to be an easy fit due to all my years of playing soccer. Fast forward to the first game of my junior year, the head coach made the decision to not kick any extra points; I got no playing time. My impulsiveness and anger erupted like a volcano. I threw the kicking tee at him, hitting him in the back. I walked off the field, into the locker room, took all my equipment off and didn’t turn back. I was also on the track and field team but that was just another failed attempt to fit in. At least I participated in that all four years of high school. However, it became clear that team sports were not for me.
Having quit football and feeling even more alone, I was lost and didn’t know where to turn. Then, my senior year, I signed up for a theatre class. It was only offered our senior year and I figured what the hell. I had already been failing at everything else in high school, not academically of course, I’ll just add theatre to the list. I should note that up until that time, I never stood on a stage or participated in any type of theatrical productions. Much to my surprise, from the first day of class, I was enjoying everything I was being taught. Having an amazing teacher was a big part of this enjoyment. He took me under his wing and I became part of a world I never knew existed. I was introduced to a new language and terms, different types of jobs that went into making a successful production (lighting, sound, set construction, etc.), and the tools needed to be an actor.
My entire senior year was, for lack of a better term, a rebirth. The anger and sadness that consumed me for almost 10 years had subsided. I was excited for class again and had a newfound hunger and interest for learning. While I still did not connect with people or form relationships, my friend had become theatre. It accepted me for who I was and gave me the opportunity to forget all the negativity that controlled me mentally. All my hard work paid off and I successfully received an “A” for the class. More importantly, I found something that looking back now, saved my life. Even if it was only for a brief period.
