Robin Williams is quoted as saying "All it takes is a beautiful fake smile to hide an injured soul and they will never notice how broken you really are."
Just like so many other things mental illness is still stigmatized; people are either crazy, faking it for attention, or crazy, or maybe faking it for attention. And sure, maybe some are, but the vast majority aren't. I'll go so far as to say that *MY PERSONAL OPINION* is that most all people in this small world we live in have some sort of psychological affliction. There are so many ways that mental illness can and does affect our daily lives. Stress, need for control, anxiety, depressive episodes or depression are all small examples of, albeit minor, of how mental illness can affect daily lives.
For my purposes here, I'm going to discuss the give some insight of my journey to the diagnosis bipolar 2. An article on the APA (American Psychological Association) gives a brief description of the myths and realities and describes the differences between Bipolar 1, 2, and unspecified. If you have any questions about the differences and what they mean to the diagnosee, please read the link to the article on the website linked to the APA abbreviation above.
Before I start with my own personal story, my purpose in putting my story out there is to help, to hope that someone sees the signs in themselves and gets help. Or sees the signs in someone else and gets them help before it the consequences become irreversible. The American Society for Suicide Prevention has a great article on the suicide rates that everyone should read. It is not specific to bipolar, but I think most people would agree that suicide is a result of mental stress and illness and it doesn't care how it's classified. .
My first divorce took place in my late 20's. As amicable as it was, it was stressful and intense as all divorces are. Being alone after 8 years and being solely responsible for, well, everything can be really a wild ride for someone like me. At the time, my anxiety and unreasonable stress levels were not understood by me. I felt like it was normal. I did not pay attention to the people surrounding me that handled their lives with significantly more grace and fluidity.
I worked second shift (3-11:30pm) and so had difficulty sleeping and subsequently functioning. I was constantly grumpy and rude and my friends and family were understandably frustrated with me. I loved them and wanted to be a better person, so I went to my primary care physician (PCP) and she prescribed me lexapro and gave me a sleeping pill. Two and a half-three weeks later I was better not 100%, but functioning so well that it didn't matter that it wasn't really that significant of an improvement. Small steps forward feel like large ones when you don't know better.
Fast forward to Spring 2010. My light, my heart, my soul is born. Everything felt fine until I went back to work. On the way in that morning, I pulled my car over and vomited on the side of the highway. I did this every day on my way to work for 3 weeks. It was frustrating and hard to understand, but of course it was postpartum depression. They stuck a bandaid on it (increased medication strength) and called it fixed.
Fast forward to 2014, any month...
I cry. I cry a lot. I cry for no reason and I cry for every reason. I can't control it. Once it starts it won't be stop. I cry at work. I cry at home. I cry in the shower. I cry in the car. You've gotten the drift by now. I called it "idiopathic crying syndrome."
If I think about some of the external causes, they are normal, typical reasons. A big part was isolation. Working nights, driving an hour to and from work, being home alone, when my husband and child did come home, getting out of bed was torture and when I did manage it, I was mean, grumpy, sad. Sad to the point that my son, the love of my life, thought that I cried because of him. He's 4, he doesn't understand, hell, I didn't understand. I begin to notice that things like crowds and traffic and loud noises and bright lights, they make my heart race and my head to pound. The contribute even this to working nights and being alone all the time. This life goes on and on and on just like this for what feels like an eternity.
Let's fast forward again to March 2015. I'm in Norfolk, working for the red cross, some training or whatnot. I have too much to drink, not enough to eat. All I can think about is how much easier it would be to not be here. I don't think of it in terms of committing suicide, I really didn't. It was just going to sleep. Not feeling so fucking sad all the fucking time. I think I want my head to SHUT. UP. So much noise. I hold the bottles in my hand, the ones I think will help me sleep and stop me from hurting. I stare at them, crying. And even through the haze of tears and the buzz of wine, it occurs to me... I can't miss Quinn's first day of kindergarten. I can't miss Quinn's graduation. I can't miss it all. His wedding. His baby being born. My mom missed out on Quinn and there's not a day that goes by that this isn't sad to me. So I take just the one pill and I sleep.
The next morning I wake, embarrassed for myself, pissed off that I even allowed myself to get to this point. I still don't know though, I don't know about the bipolar, I just know something is wrong and, yes, it scares me. I don't tell anyone for a long time. But I do make an appointment with a therapist. For me, but more for my family. I think maybe it's not too late to save us.
The therapist encourages me to see a psychiatrist so I do. I talk to him for almost two hours and he thinks I might have Bipolar 2. He gives me homework, literature to read, to write down when I'm sad. And medication. Plenty of medication. Weening off some, starting somethings new. One of the drugs is something I will end up taking for the rest of my life. The others, he hopes, I will be able to do away with. It's been close to six months. I'm a different person. A better person. I can love better, I can be loved finally. I'm starting not to hate myself for what I put my now estranged husband and my wonderful son through. I don't think I can put my family back together. I'm not sure it would be a wise choice even if I could. Maybe I've changed too much, maybe not enough. Who knows what the future holds.
Here's a few things I do know.
I found some faith: myself, friends/family, God.
I also found Peace: head, heart, soul.
I found endurance: life, body, love.
I leave you with something I read every day. It's on my wall at work, at home, in my wallet, in my car. It helps, more than any other words I read.
Fast forward to Spring 2010. My light, my heart, my soul is born. Everything felt fine until I went back to work. On the way in that morning, I pulled my car over and vomited on the side of the highway. I did this every day on my way to work for 3 weeks. It was frustrating and hard to understand, but of course it was postpartum depression. They stuck a bandaid on it (increased medication strength) and called it fixed.
Fast forward to 2014, any month...
I cry. I cry a lot. I cry for no reason and I cry for every reason. I can't control it. Once it starts it won't be stop. I cry at work. I cry at home. I cry in the shower. I cry in the car. You've gotten the drift by now. I called it "idiopathic crying syndrome."
If I think about some of the external causes, they are normal, typical reasons. A big part was isolation. Working nights, driving an hour to and from work, being home alone, when my husband and child did come home, getting out of bed was torture and when I did manage it, I was mean, grumpy, sad. Sad to the point that my son, the love of my life, thought that I cried because of him. He's 4, he doesn't understand, hell, I didn't understand. I begin to notice that things like crowds and traffic and loud noises and bright lights, they make my heart race and my head to pound. The contribute even this to working nights and being alone all the time. This life goes on and on and on just like this for what feels like an eternity.
Let's fast forward again to March 2015. I'm in Norfolk, working for the red cross, some training or whatnot. I have too much to drink, not enough to eat. All I can think about is how much easier it would be to not be here. I don't think of it in terms of committing suicide, I really didn't. It was just going to sleep. Not feeling so fucking sad all the fucking time. I think I want my head to SHUT. UP. So much noise. I hold the bottles in my hand, the ones I think will help me sleep and stop me from hurting. I stare at them, crying. And even through the haze of tears and the buzz of wine, it occurs to me... I can't miss Quinn's first day of kindergarten. I can't miss Quinn's graduation. I can't miss it all. His wedding. His baby being born. My mom missed out on Quinn and there's not a day that goes by that this isn't sad to me. So I take just the one pill and I sleep.
The next morning I wake, embarrassed for myself, pissed off that I even allowed myself to get to this point. I still don't know though, I don't know about the bipolar, I just know something is wrong and, yes, it scares me. I don't tell anyone for a long time. But I do make an appointment with a therapist. For me, but more for my family. I think maybe it's not too late to save us.
The therapist encourages me to see a psychiatrist so I do. I talk to him for almost two hours and he thinks I might have Bipolar 2. He gives me homework, literature to read, to write down when I'm sad. And medication. Plenty of medication. Weening off some, starting somethings new. One of the drugs is something I will end up taking for the rest of my life. The others, he hopes, I will be able to do away with. It's been close to six months. I'm a different person. A better person. I can love better, I can be loved finally. I'm starting not to hate myself for what I put my now estranged husband and my wonderful son through. I don't think I can put my family back together. I'm not sure it would be a wise choice even if I could. Maybe I've changed too much, maybe not enough. Who knows what the future holds.
Here's a few things I do know.
I found some faith: myself, friends/family, God.
I also found Peace: head, heart, soul.
I found endurance: life, body, love.
I leave you with something I read every day. It's on my wall at work, at home, in my wallet, in my car. It helps, more than any other words I read.
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