“The Psychotic Mindset of a Self-Treating Manic Depressant"

A Memoir by, Thomas Hopkins

I was twenty-four when my mind finally gave in and broke. I had been self-medicating for a while, with the use of drugs, alcohol, and by inflicting damage to my body. I would take sewing needles and push them through an inch thick layer of skin. I also burned myself on occasion. These things I did, not on a whim, but to calm an overwhelming anxiety, which crept in to my body with a regularity as if it had a permanent residence there. The anxiety made my chest pound so hard I could see my pulse beating through the veins in my neck, while I looked into my drained, and leery of life eyes, through the mirror. I would often drink a fifth of Smirnoff Blue Label Vodka, with the intentions of calming my ever-shaking hands, caused by this hell-forsaken anxiety. It really is a miracle I am alive. I have swallowed enough pain pills, which should have easily killed me on countless occasions. I never did these things with the intentions of killing myself; I did them to help calm the gut wrenching anxiety, which at times seemed to encompass my very being.

I had lived through these up and down cycles for approximately six years. It started when I was around eighteen. I was either in an up and full of energy phase were I would go days without sleeping or the complete opposite where I wanted to do nothing but sleep. The worst was the coming down from a high to a low, my body knew it needed sleep but my brain would not shut down. I would spend night after night tossing and turning but never sleeping. The dreadful alarm would sound at no surprise to me, because I would be in some sort of a trance watching the time change. The evil red light of the alarm clock seemed to glare back at my red and irritated blood shot eyes. This in-between time was when I needed something more, something to help and as a result, my sanity would resort to insanity to provide a means for me to cope.  

I had tried many different sleeping pills with no avail. It started out as just a pinch on my arm, done out of frustration. I did not feel the pain I had anticipated would come from this, just a calming sensation, which helped to relieve the tension. This technique quickly became like a newfound drug I was becoming addicted to, which rapidly escalated to me taking sewing needles and pushing them through the skin between my index finger and my thumb. When this method no longer calmed my anxiety, I tried something new. I moved to my arm and would pinch an inch or so full of skin and push the sewing needle from one side through to the other.  I did this for quite awhile, because it did not leave any marks, which kept me from having to explain the craziness, which so often drove me to do such things. 

When the sewing needles quit working, I started to burn. I would heat things up and brand myself. For some reason I mostly stuck to my right arm for the burning, so you can see from my shoulder to my elbow are visible reminders of this evil and unyielding anxiety. Little smiley faces imprinted from the tops of BIC lighters. Burning worked well to calm my anxiety, but the marks took too long to heal, and often became infected. One of the larger burns became so badly infected I was forced to go to the doctor and had to be put on an IV. It was easy to lie to the doctor though, because it was as if he was only there to collect a paycheck, not really caring why or how the wound had gotten there.

  I quit burning because it became too hazardous, people were starting to get suspicious at how often I was being burned. This is when I turned to the use of knifes. I was often getting cut at work, so I could explain the marks made by a knife with more ease than I could a burn. The cutting started out small, but like all the other methods I had used, it quickly escalated. The most noticeable scars, which I have from cutting, are on my left forearm, and can be seen best in the summer time because the scars lack the pigment of red, my skin turns to after it is introduced to the sun. For some reason I always cut on my left arm. I cut into my arm after learning the girl who took my virginity had died due to brain cancer. I was not close to her, it had been years since I had even seen her, but her death really bothered me for some reason. I drank a fifth of Jim Beam whiskey and carved, “Death Finds Us All” in the under part of my left forearm. I remember going to work and seeing the looks of judgment from my co-workers when they caught a glimpse at my arm. The looks, said, “This kid is crazy!” This fact I already knew, but did not want everyone else knowing.

Anger had been consuming me, and my parents had started thinking I needed to get some help. They did not realize at the time my self-inflicted injuries, because I kept the scars and marks covered with long sleeved shirts. When I was in the coming down phase, everything seemed to irritate me. I was a walking bomb, just waiting for someone to set me off.  Often my father was the one to take the brunt of my targeted anger. He is a strong willed man so he would try to battle it out with me. We never went fist to cuff, we just yelled viciously at each other saying many things we really did not mean.

The last time my father and I had it out, he would not let the argument go. I had past the point where I felt like I had control over myself and was trying to retreat to the basement of my parent’s house. My dad followed right behind me screaming and yelling all the way. I had enough, and I had to let him know I was not in the right state of mind to deal with his added stress. I turned to face him as he rounded the corner at the bottom of the basement stairs. As soon as he opened his mouth to continue his verbal assault on me, I turned, and head-butted the wall with all my might. My head sunk into the wall as deep as my ears. As I pulled my head out of the wall and looked at him, I saw the fear, which had replaced the anger in my father’s eyes. He quickly turned and ran up the stairs yelling for my mom to call the cops, saying, “Kay, he’s gone crazy, call the cops!” They never did call the cops; we just went our separate ways for a couple of days and put the incident into our pasts.

The last time I cut myself was just a few weeks after this fight. I once again could not sleep and had been really struggling to cope with the over whelming anxiety. I was in the basement of my parent’s house, sitting on a couch in the family room. The TV was on, but muted, so I could hear the ticking of the second hand on the clock, which hung on the wall across the room. Tick, Tick, Tick, it was around 2:30 a.m. I had decided to take the cutting to the next level. I was going to try to use the same technique I used with the sewing needles. I took a buck knife I used for hunting, and clicked it opened and closed a couple of times while I built up my courage, which did not take long, because my mind was ready for its medication. 

I opened the blade of the knife and placed the tip to the top of my left forearm, about three inches down from my wrist, and centered it on my arm. I was going to try to sink the blade into my arm as far as I could take it. The picture my mind had foreseen was inserting the blade about an inch deep and then stopping. As I applied, pressure to the razor sharp knife, it did not move, so I applied a little more. Then all of sudden I heard and felt a POP! The knife sliced through my arm like it was cutting through air. It went straight though my arm, and was pulled right back out with the same speed, due to an unconscious reflex. I did not feel any pain and my anxiety calmed for about two seconds. I could not get the wound to stop bleeding, blood poured out of my arm as I ran, I bled all over the floor and then into the bathroom sink. I did not know what to do; I was going to have to get help from my parents.

How do you tell your parents you have just forced a knife through your arm? I had hoped not to wake my mother, but as I shook my dad’s arm to wake him, he yelled in a startled tone, “What the hell are you doing!” It was dark, so he could not see the blood soaked shirt I had wrapped around the wound on my arm. I think he could hear the tension in my voice, when I tried to explain to him how I really needed his help, which enabled him to quickly realize something bad had happened. My mom woke and immediately ask in a tone of alertness, “Tom what is wrong? Then I heard in an uncertain tone of assurance, “Stay here Kay and I’ll find out what’s wrong. Don’t worrying it will be all right,” said by my father, whose facial expression betrayed his feeble attempt at calming my mother, because with the flick of a switch the light  showed his true feelings of fear, doubt, and pain, emotions I had rarely seen expressed by this strong willed man. My dad and I figured I should probably go to the hospital, because I could have hit a vein or cut a tendon, so I had him drive me to the Alta View Hospital’s Emergency Room.

As I checked in I was wondering when I was going to be able to go home again. I figured the doctors would force me to go to the University of Utah Mental Hospital. I told the woman at the front desk what had happened and had my dad fill out the check-in chart. After waiting for what seemed like just an instant, an orderly escorted my father and me from the waiting room back into the treatment area. We sat in the open treatment area until a nurse came, cleaned up my arm, and told me the doctor would be in to check on me in a few minutes. As the nurse left, she never closed any curtains, because I was the only patient there. She just walked around the corner disappearing into the emptiness of the hospital. Leaving my father and I to wait for the doctor, in the cold and barren ER.

With the exception of a few hospital personnel who strolled through the treatment area, all wearing the same mundane and emotionless expressions on their faces, we did not see another person until the doctor came in to see me. He had me move my fingers back and forth to check if I had cut any tendons, which if I had would have caused a loss in the range of motion, in my hand and fingers. Thankfully, I did not, because if I had the doctor explained I would have had to undergone a surgical procedure to correct the damage.   After stitching my arm, the doctor explained to me that before I could leave, I needed to talk to the hospital’s on-call Psychiatrist to make sure I was not in danger of killing myself.

The psychiatrist was a short blond woman with kind blue eyes, who met up with my father and me back in the waiting room.  She first talked to my dad to find out if I had ever tried to kill myself in the past, and he told her, “Not to my knowledge.” She then walked over to me and asked me the same question. I told her, “I have never tried to kill myself, but I have used many different ways to cope with my anxiety for quite some time.” She listened to me explain what I was trying to overcome, and then explained to me, I was most likely suffering from a condition called Bipolar disorder. She explained people commonly use alcohol, drugs, and self-mutilation to help cope with severe cases of Bipolar, she called this “Self Medicating.” She also explained there are many medications used to treat Bipolar. This psychiatrist gave me some hope; I knew I would not survive much longer by using my current techniques for coping.

After that night in the Emergency room, I have not hurt myself intentionally again. With the support of my family, I have sought treatment. After six years of hell, a doctor finally diagnosed me with Bipolar disorder. Knowing this felt good, because it meant I was not crazy, but instead I was suffering from a chemical imbalance; an imbalance that the doctors explained is very treatable with the use of modern medications. I started the medication process, and I will not lie; it took two years of utter mental torment, before I was able to find the right medications. Bipolar is a complex disorder, which is associated with the usage of serotonin in the brain, and is treated with many different medications.

I first was prescribed Depakot, a drug that left me feeling like a zombie, not caring about anything, and it gave me the appetite of two men. I was not happy any where; I would go out with my friends and just sit there like a slug, but when I went home, it was just more of the same. I could not find happiness. My doctor struggled to find the right medication for me. As a result, I even quit trying for a few months because I figured it was a lost cause. The trial and error process my doctor was using began breaking my bank account. It was costing me over six hundred dollars a month for the medications I was on, and this was after my insurance paid its portion; this was because the medications my doctor had prescribed  did not have a generic out yet, so the pharmaceutical companies can get away with highway robbery. I was left wondering why I was paying all this money just to feel numb, this was no life it was Satin's dream; It was like I had no free will to feel.   

It was only a short time ago when I was able to find some medications, which worked. Lithium and Seroquel ended up being the most effective combination of medications for me. Since I have been on these two medications, I rarely drink, and have not felt the need to use drugs or harm myself again. I have leveled out and have begun to think clearly now.   I am not ashamed at what I have done, for so many have taken their lives because they were not able to cope with this evil disorder. I see it as if I am one of the lucky ones who have been able to find hope again.  There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and at times, it is brighter than at others; but now that I have my medication, the light is always there, and the anxiety has become a faint whisper instead of an overwhelming yell. Once again, I am able to go through life with some sense of normalcy. This evil disorder will not ever control my life ever again! 

 

2011 © T.G. Hopkins III

 

Participation Grade A+

Jan 24, 2011

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Reviews

[zig]

i know this story well

and i hate to say it but the story isnt over yet, its life long my friend. but life is still good. i do my daiy maintiance, i cant afford the medications, but i have other, just as health methods, diet, exorcise, mental disaplines. its day to day servival, its a struggle, i have good days and bad days, but it can be managed. its hard work, but its worth it, we are worth, we are still human beings, and we deserve happiness as much as the next guy.

remember that the poeple closest to you will suffer too, this is just a fact. some can deal with it , others cant. dont judge them too harshly. i find it helpful to use the reations of those closest to me as a gage, its hard to gage yourself while in the madness of wild swings, the reations of those who know us best can help us to see ourselves better.

most importantly, dont beat yourself up when you slip. you will slip, even the best of us slip. just pick yourself up and keep on keeping on.

there was a time when i would have traded all my creativity, all the writing, all the art, all the music, just to be normal. but now i dont know, my experiences are my own. i wish i could afford the meds, but i wish i could afford a houseboat too, so i guess ill keep wishing, heh.

just know that youre not alone.

zig

[FJ Davis]

Had a close friend who suffered through similar horrors. As much as I liked and respected the guy, he could, at times, be so difficult all I really wanted to do was get the hell away from him! And this was not easy, since we worked together.
In any event, I stuck by him, best I could. And while he's apparently doing pretty well now, I haven't seen him in years.
Tommy, may God continue to heal, protect and bless you.
You're an immensely talented and greatly skilled poet, who writes compellingly. This story, however, I wish you never had to write--or live.

[Aidz]

Dude to give this what it deserves I wil read in a quiet time... but thank you for sharing

[Judy Ponceby]

Tommy. A most excellently told story. I am an outpatient psychiatric nurse and have worked with many patients with bipolarity, anxiety, and cutting themselves. The diseases are so shattering to people, and its a blessing and a trial to find the right combination of medications for each person. Takes such commitment and work to find the right ones to make life manageable. You have told this story so well, so many could learn so much just by reading your experiences. I applaud your work here, and the superhuman effort you put forth to overcome the effects of this disease.

[Ravyne Hawke]

I can relate only too well to this story. I too am Bipolar. Still use cutting and burning, but to feel something besides numbness. Lithium, Effexor, Abilify, Trazadone and Clonozepam are my treatment drugs. Takes all of them to just barely keep me stable. You are very brave to write this.

[Emily B]

I've read this before. Thought I had reviewed it. . . it is important to share our experiences.

This was very sad. Bipolar disorder, is a rough thing. I know somebody who suffers from it, and really pains me to see them so down and distraught. They have it mildly, but still it is brutal. I cannot imagine how that must have been for you.
I must admit, I went through at time, for about a year when I was self mutilating. I would cut my skin, pierce it, burn it. All of that, but it was veering to suicide so I knew it had to stop. I got help, told my parents, my friends. And I was saved by Jesus Christ. I'd be dead if I hadn't gotten help, I wouldn't have been typing this. So I can relate to the hurting yourself part.
For me, it was a release of pain and the past. Sick as it was...
Your story is one to share, that others can learn from. It's so sad but a reality for some. I'm sorry this happened to you.
But I cannot voice enough that you are STRONG! To stop those habits, get help, is truly amazing.
Your story has touched me and I am relating.
Thank you for sharing this.

[Mikel]

This is a well-thought out personal experience piece. I do think it is publishable to the right market. I would ge back and recheck my punctuation. There are places that are missing commas, and I noticed semi-colons where commas should be. I noticed some typos that I've listed below. I realize how hard writing things like this are, but to bring it out in the open might help save someone from this kind of existence. Send it out and see what happens.

“Tom what is Wrong? "Wrong" shouldn't be capitalized.
check in chart - Check-in should be hyphenated.
my doctor had proscribed - prescribed
it was Satins dream - Satan's dream
have began to think clearly now. - began should be begun

[Jūdan FyreHeart]

It was very interesting to read this and see the startling similiarity to back when I was a wreck. The ups and downs, incredible insomnia, frustration, irritability, desperation... yea.
It was good of you, brave, to post this. I don't think I could sit down and do the same. Only I haven't been to a doctor, I gritted my teeth and have spent the last 5 years re-building myself from scratch. =) Sorry to ramble..