Before I was diagnosed with bipolar I led a sort of ordinary life. I had friends. I worked. I dated. I actively volunteered with my local church congregation. I mothered my daughter.
Before I was diagnosed with bipolar I didn't suddenly wake up one day with my world turned upside down. It was a gradual thing that started slowly and then spiraled quickly out of control. I can remember things I did that I'm embarrassed to admit to now. The time my daughter "helped" me rearrange my bedroom and broke a bunch of things on my dresser. I freaked out. Total overreaction. Out of proportion with the situation, and and almost out-of-body experience.
Then there were the times I couldn't go to work. I would plead headaches, and since I got migraines it seemed logical. But the truth was I just couldn't get out of bed. I would have days I could force myself to work, then one day I wouldn't be able to move. Then after a few days I could get out of bed and force myself back to work. I lost a few jobs because of my "headaches."
The times I drank too much. Self-medicating is the term used in the profession, but at the time it simply was a coping mechanism. I embarrassed myself more than once because of this, usually because of the depression, but at times because of the mania. I would get crazy and do things I would normally never do. Flirt with lots of men. Go out and party until really late, then come home and talk til the early hours. Just staying up with a rush of energy that wouldn't slow down.
I lost friends, especially once I was diagnosed. But that was my own fault. I was ashamed of my diagnosis, and I didn't want anyone to know about my weakness. So I hid. I slinked back to my parents house, no job, no car, no more me, it seemed. I didn't know what to say to all these people who knew me when. When I was fun. When I was "normal." When I was me.
What I didn't realize is that I was still me. And I hadn't been normal for a while. And my real friends had been my friends through all the craziness and would have stayed my friends if I'd let them. But I was scared. Scared of an illness that I didn't understand. Scared of something that sounded like the end of my life. Scared that everyone would think I was a failure. A loser. A crazy person.
And partly that was based on reality. I had people who, not knowing my diagnosis, would say things like "when I get depressed, I just pray and it all goes away." Suggesting that a person who is struggling with depression isn't trusting enough in God.
Or another good one: "It's all in your head. If you were willing to work hard enough, you could pull yourself through it." Yes, it is in my head, but I now know it's a physical thing going on in my head, not a thought process that I can just change and make better.
I didn't tell these people I had bipolar. But I also didn't tell the people who said things like "depression is a difficult thing to understand unless you've been there." I didn't tell my friends who said "you have a problem and you need help, and whatever I can do to help, I will do." I ran away from everyone, including myself.
I ran all the way to California. As if that would make everything better. Funny thing is, wherever you go, there you are. You can't run from yourself. And I was just as sick as I was in Illinois, but without any support network. Thankfully, I met my husband, who helped me though a lot of it. But sadly even here there were people willing to be my friends that I couldn't open up to, couldn't allow in, and it made me alone here.
I missed two of my close friends' weddings. I will forever regret that. I have a once very close friend that has three kids close in age to my kids that I'm no longer close to, and I will forever regret that. I don't remember going camping with a group of friends when I first came to California, a shared memory that could make us good friends. I wish I could have that.
But along the way I've learned--slowly--to open up. To let people in and see how they react. To start trusting people when they like me that they will accept me for who I am, and that includes my illness. And I've learned that there will always be people who don't understand, but that's not my problem. I can't fix the world's problems, and that's just one of the world's problems: people have a hard time accepting what they can't understand or see for themselves.
And I've learned that more people are willing to learn about mental illness if given the chance. They want to know more, to understand, to listen and learn. And I've learned that having a mental illness doesn't preclude an ordinary life, unless you refuse to accept it.
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