As part of Mental Health Awareness Month, In Their Own Words shares honest reflections from writers who tell about what living with mental illness can feel like from the inside.
This story discusses bipolar disorder and may be difficult for some readers. Please read with care.
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I was a freshman in college when I had my first serious manic episode.
It was bad – really bad. But no one hospitalized me. Then again, no one really knew me.
That year is a blur. I swung from deep depression, barely able to get out of bed, to nonstop talking, sleepless nights, paranoia. I wrote in my journal for hours until the ink ran dry. I lost track of time, of reality.
The next fall, I dropped out. Like many people with bipolar disorder, my decision-making was impulsive. The registrar tried to talk me out of it. I told her I thought I was depressed. It was the first time I remember saying anything like that out loud. She asked if I had a doctor, a therapist, a diagnosis. I lied, and said yes. Yes, of course I had a doctor, therapist and diagnosis. I knew about being depressed. But I didn’t have words for everything else I was experiencing.
There was family history. Serious mental illness on my dad’s side. But I wasn’t like them. They were crazy. I wasn’t crazy. I thought I could handle it. But I couldn’t. The swings between mania and depression became something I ignored over and over again, until I couldn’t look away anymore.
I went to the doctor and got a real diagnosis: bipolar disorder. I felt relief, but also grief. All those terrible weeks and months and years. So much lost time. So many gaps. Hallucinations, racing thoughts, regrets. A harsh and bright light swung over my memories, and I could see them for what they were. Illness.
A few years have passed. I still see the doctor often. My meds are always being adjusted. My type is tricky to control. It’s really hard work. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I got help sooner. For a long time, it made me sad to think about who I would have been or could have done, but that grief is getting easier.
Mental illness is a crapshoot. We don’t know why it grabs some people by the throat and rattles their teeth. We don’t know why it ignores other people. Mental illness doesn’t accept bargaining or prayers. You can’t force it off your DNA. You don’t raise your hand and volunteer. It just closes it’s eyes and points. This time it pointed at me.
It is something I will live with for the rest of my life. But I am finally looking it in the face. I know what I have. I know who I am. And I know I’ll be fine. – written by K. Edwards