An Essay on The Experience of Living With Bipolar Disorder

A few months ago, I sat watching the news pouring from the screen across the living room. I wasn’t surprised, wasn’t even disappointed to be honest. I took a deep drink of my coffee and sighed. It was nothing new really, corrupt business practice, murders, governmental controversy, environmental destruction. Nope, nothing new, and I just wasn’t shocked anymore. All of a sudden that hit home…and then,maybe, I DID feel some sort of disappointment. But, it was a disappointment in myself. When did expecting the bad or the worst become commonplace for me? I felt a twinge of shame in the realization that I’d become a pessimist. It almost hurt really, because that wasn’t me. At least it didn’t used to be, and I couldn’t actually pinpoint when it had happened. I suppose it was just because it was so much easier. These days cynicism seemed the path of least resistance. Now that I recognized it, I hated it. The only real reason I can recognize and acknowledge it NOW is because, for the first time in a decade, my mind is clear again. Of course I expected the negative… I have spent so long living in it. Wading in the dark underbelly of existence, the shadow of life.

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I came across a quiz not long ago, and one of the questions was “What one word would you use to describe yourself?” My first thought? Hurricane, and not in the cute, hip “I’m a beautiful disaster” way. I have been a hurricane of destruction. And there is nothing beautiful about it. I can see that now because I’m medicated and it keeps me level. That is a blessing AND a curse really. Being emotionally and mentally stable is great. Finally being able to see the reality of your story is hard. Especially when you have been so out of control for so long. I’m not going to sugar coat it, because I’m not interested in that, what I’m sharing is real. The facts are: I have a very real disorder, and Bipolar Disorder is far from a joke or a cop out, I have to medicate myself everyday…and will have to for the rest of my life, I have spent far too much time out of control, and that has had a profound effect on my life.

If we are being honest though, I have to say, that medication doesn’t make it go away completely. They stabilize, they make one HELL of a difference…but they are not a magic wand. I can still feel the slight ups and downs beneath the medication…I recognize the fluctuations. Now I’m just able to control them. But, Bipolar Disorder is like its own special kind of drug, especially the mania. The mania is addicting and, right this very second, I am having minor withdrawals. I bet that sounds pretty bad to you. Or maybe it doesn’t, because the word mania means nothing to you. And maybe it is “bad”, but I can’t control that feeling, only manage it. In fact, that’s what it’s really about…feelings. What I’m really addicted to is the chaos, and the feelings associated with mania. When you are manic the whole world is your oyster. You can do anything, be anything. There is no reality, no consequence. It is pure, unadulterated CHAOS. I think the most addicting part though, really, is doing whatever you want whenever you want and feeling absolutely no sense of boundaries or remorse IN THE MOMENT. So I guess it’s addicting both for its extreme emotions AND it’s lack of them. Make sense to you? Me neither.

I was warned, however, of the temptations that will come to stop taking my medications…maybe those will always rear up, maybe they won’t. But, that warning is in the forefront of my mind, along with my withdrawal. So instead of “forgetting” my pills and allowing myself to spiral up into the chaotic, addicting, blind euphoria of mania…I’m going to write this instead. Because, for all of its addictiveness…it is also terrifying. It is a hellish nightmare. And on the other side of the coin I can’t bear the thought of riding that ride anymore. I was leveled out, between cycles, when I agreed to get help and at the time that didn’t sound difficult. For this moment at least, it is. That’s the honest truth. This essay is really more of a reminder for myself, a letter home if you will, of where I came from…and why I don’t want to go back.

This disorder…this mental illness…is just that, an illness, and thank the gods it CAN be treated. Unfortunately nearly ten years of damage has already been done by my plight, and I can’t take that back. What makes me most sad is that all of the people I have met in the last decade saw the broken, ill and out of control, shadow of the human that I am. They do not know ME. They couldn’t possibly know me, because I was hidden away in the dungeons of my disorder. They don’t understand the sensitive me. They don’t see the giving, loving and laid back me.  Or the creative, positive and adventurous me. This breaks my heart. Because while the broken me damaged relationships and situations, crumbled people’s opinions of who I was and wrought havoc, the real me was standing behind the bars screaming for freedom…begging to be let out, pleading to once again be the truth of my existence. Nobody could hear it. I could hardly hear it at times…in fact, sometimes I couldn’t hear it at all. Now I have the chance to show who that person is again, for some relationships it may be too late and for some it won’t. Either way, I’m glad I’m free. And I have so much hope back for the future. So why don’t you give me the chance to introduce you a bit to the person that I missed so much. I’ll give you a glimpse of the sunny, sensitive curious young lady that I was (That I AM) before Bipolar Disorder.

Sunny…that is the one word I would use to describe the girl before the storm. I remember what is was like to have a positive outlook on life, to see all the beauty in the world, even through all of its darkness…and even at a young age. Making friends was so easy for me, because my heart and my mind were very open, and because I wasn’t afraid of myself or relationships yet. I loved people! I won’t say I didn’t see the differences between people, like race or culture or personality. I did see those things, but I loved them. In fact, I still love them. I was creative…I always loved to write, whether I was any good at it or not was irrelevant to me. I loved to express myself, to journal, to pour out my emotions into poetry, to create short stories…or even just to ramble my thoughts. Most importantly I just felt free. I loved to learn, to read, about ANYTHING. Before the throes of mania and depression hampered my attention span, curiosity and focus. I would read constantly, and not just stories. History and various subjects of science were some of my favorites. I would write reports for fun and turn them in to my mother. Reports on things like black holes or ancient Rome. I even wrote book reports for my own amusement. I loved to learn. My ability to focus and retain information have been the hardest loss.

MANIA

The most damaging part of Bipolar Disorder, in my opinion, is the mania. Mania has many faces, or rather many symptoms, and I don’t know if I’ll do justice to the seriousness and damaging nature of mania. But I can at least introduce you to the monster. The worst part is the lack of boundaries…this has caused me more pain and suffering than any other symptom. Unfortunately when you are manic you just don’t care. You are hell bent on what “feels good” and what you want. Your understanding of “right and wrong” is so distorted that it is dangerous, as well as damaging to yourself and your relationships…to your whole life really…and when you come down from it you can’t even recognize the person you’d been. Excessive spending, sexual promiscuity, rash decision making (Like dropping everything and moving on a dime…or piercing things…only to regret it later. Both of which I have done while manic) But god forbid anybody stand in your way. That brings out a whole different symptom, volatility. And the volatility is the second most damaging side effect of mania. If only you could take back your words, withdraw your venom. I have said some terribly hurtful things, been just down right mean in the middle of a manic “fit”, and to think at the time I felt like the victim of someone else’s control or manipulation. All because they were trying to talk sense into me.

Part of what fuels the fires of recklessness and impulsivity during mania is an unyielding restlessness. Things CANNOT stay the same, and you CANNOT stay in one place. It eats me alive every time. You feel panicked and anxious most of the time, and it’s exhausting. It’s like running a hectic race to nowhere, against a clock that doesn’t exist. Which brings to mind another symptom, sleep. You don’t do it. That restlessness and anxiety also feed into insomnia…you’re just plain wired when you’re manic. I think though, the biggest thing that makes me sometimes miss the mania is the increased creativity. Since my mind is going a million miles a minute and I see the world without boundaries (physical or mental), those are the times I have done some of my best creating. Writing, art, crafts…etc. That is hard to let go of sometimes. Another symptom that is worthy of note, the memory loss during manic episodes. This is both a blessing and a curse I think. There are things that I’m sure I don’t want to actually remember; but at the same time, it is so hard to hear other people’s accounts of your behavior and have no recollection yourself. In fact, sometimes that feels downright scary. There have been nights I have stayed up wondering what in the world I have said and done during a manic episode but can’t recall. Truth is, it scares me and feels like a relief at the same time, because maybe I don’t want to remember who the manic me was. Maybe I should just be happy I’m a fighter. On the other hand, remembering things that DIDN’T occur is equally scary. Swearing up and down that somebody said or did something…but you’re the only one. The questions it begs will drive you mad. Was it all in my head, am I crazy, I wasn’t hallucinating…No. They just don’t remember…they’re the crazy ones, they’re lying, they don’t remember. Because, how could you possible remember things that never happened right? Mania, it’s a hell of a ride.

DEPRESSION

The drive to her house was a very calming and peaceful one. Though, I could never do justice, with my words, to the true feeling of peace. And I’m not going to try. Maybe you think that’s a copout, maybe I think I’ll just tarnish the memory of that feeling with inadequacy. I don’t want to do that, so I won’t. But I CAN tell you I was very much at peace that night. Very little traffic infected the roads. The rain outside was beating on the windshield, playing its pitter patter song in the night.  It was so beautiful…rain always is. Ever fluid and ever changing in its paths across the surfaces of the world. Beautiful in the way it makes the night gleam. It always looks to me like everything is made of glass, fragile and delicate, maybe everything IS. Beautiful in its power to cleanse the earth…the air. And beautiful in itself, because water is life, rain is life…and we were being washed in it. The streetlights made it even more enchanting, casting an amber glow around the town. The heater kept me warm inside the car, nice and cozy. I was beyond comfortable, listening to Josh Groban play on the car stereo…CLOSER. That was one of my favorite CD’s. It still is. The power in his voice, the emotion in the music; It has always moved my soul, from the first moment I heard him sing. That was all beautiful too. I sipped my hot Chai and kept driving onward. It was my favorite time of year, I was listening to my favorite CD, on my way to get my best friend and drinking a hot Chai on a cold night… while our usually dry town was graced with beautiful life giving rain. Beauty was all around me, it seemed, and it was so uplifting. I was content. More than content actually, I was joyful. I was at peace.

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That was a long time ago now, about eleven years actually, maybe even 12. I remember that particular night very vividly, even though it may seem mundane and insignificant to the reader, because to me it was a book marker in my life. It was a snapshot of the person I was, optimistic, happy and able to see the good in the world. And it marked one of the last times I can really remember being myself…before the first wave hit. The waves would keep coming after that first one hit at about nineteen. Down and then up, and sometimes somewhere in between. But that first wave, the very first one…was the dark, desperate hole of depression. And it stole a part of my heart I’m still fighting to get back. Don’t stop fighting self, we can do this.

Depression unfortunately, like mania, has the ability to completely engulf every fiber of your mind and being. It’s a mean, spiteful master… whose only pleasure is the breaking of its victims. That’s how I would describe it as a person. I know that depression is not a living thing (or is it?) but, when you are engaged in a war with it, depression feels very much alive. And it is one hell of an enemy all on its own. It has the ability to outflank you, and then it hits like a goddamn train. If I were to describe depression as a place it would be equally as ugly. It is dark, and I don’t just mean void of light, but void of anything good, pure or honest. Depression is pain, even when you don’t know where it’s coming from. It is a pit, way down in the underbelly of life, and it’s just for you. By the time you really notice that you feel different, it’s too late. All you can do is ride the wave, and hope you don’t drown before it’s over.

The most valuable and successful tactic of this half of the disorder is lying. And much like a relationship with a charming, dangerous, sociopath; you can’t help but be enchanted by it, and believe everything it tells you. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know why. I CAN tell you, now that the horrific monkey on my back is caged, not to believe it…to hold on to the light and just remind yourself that depression LIES. But if I were to fall back into that pit? I’d probably eat it all up like candy. I would swallow every drop of the poison, because sometimes it feels less like a battle…and more like there is no me left, just the depression.

The things that you hear in your own head when you are depressed are mind blowing to me. Even more so is the fact that they have such a profound effect on my ability to function, and on the way I am able to view things. When I look back at the things I can actually remember from these periods of time I feel sick, sick at the way my mind has twisted and distorted the world around me and at how much of my time and life have been stolen by it. There is no regret like feeling that the already short life you have is being wasted, and wasted in such a horrible way. There are SO many lies to be heard and so many things that destroy your foundation of self. As a child and as a teenager I was a little shy (less so as a teenager) but I was always confident in who I was. I was sure of what I was interested in, sure of what I thought and believed. Despite many childhood “traumas” I was doing alright. Relationships with extended family and my mama’s encouragement to journal, to talk about things…and the therapy for home circumstances kept me doing alright for the first major part of my life. I had value for myself. I valued the world. I valued life. But, then the lies came. Those hideous lies tell you that you are ugly, that you aren’t smart enough, that you are weak, and that you aren’t capable…that you’re just no good. They steal all of your heart and energy, until you can’t stand the thought of interacting with the world around you. Sometimes you can’t even leave your bed, everything hurts. But once again, I was able to curb this horribleness as well as the mania, I was able to start healing.

HEALING

Then came a psychiatrist, through a series of events. And with that came life-changings, and saving, medication. But in the end, even medication can only carry you so far when it comes to recovering and managing these things. It takes a lot of work on top of the pills. You take the meds and you level out, and that is monumental! But now you have to heal all the damage that has been caused, and change all of the thought processes that have become pattern. This is another area where the pills make an enormous difference, because now you have the mental ability and strength to make those changes…and to see that you need to. Those negative patterns are ingrained in your mind now, and so it’s time to reset them. I remind myself of this daily. I’m not going to lie…it is really hard work. It’s already gotten much better, but sometimes I still have those negative thoughts pop up. Luckily, I can catch it. That’s when I work at it. My focus has switched from all of the negative to a desire for personal health and balance. This means taking care of every aspect of “self”. Part of this is changing your focus from what others “are” to what YOU are. Stop comparing yourself to magazines. Stop comparing yourself to Facebook profile pictures. Stop comparing yourself to the people walking down the street, or even to the person you were before treatment or to “normal” people. Just stop comparing yourself to other things altogether. Turn your focus inward. This has been key for me. Comparison is the breeding ground for disappointment and unrealistic expectations. This is so detrimental to happiness.

Instead, I have practiced and am still practicing turning from comparison to gratitude. When I look in the mirror and a negative thought pops up I compliment something I do like about myself, instead of being stuck on the thing I don’t like. It is amazing what good you can find if you actively look for it. Positive self-reinforcement is something I have come to practice daily. Actually, I practice it multiple times a day. This to me is a way to retrain my brain in the way it thinks, and in the way I feel about myself. I take my pills, I did the therapy, and when I feel disheartened or overwhelmed (or even just when I’m sitting in the car or doing nothing at all) I repeat a list of the things that I want to be, the things that I AM. “I am strong, I am capable, I am intelligent, I am beautiful. I am NOT my illness. I can heal. Things can be different.” That’s it, I just tell myself these things all the time, and I work hard at living them. And you know what…it’s working.