February of this year, I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 Disorder. Bipolar Disorder is experiencing both mania and depression—the best of both worlds. I hadn't seen a psychologist or psychiatrist for just under five years prior to my diagnosis. For five years, everything felt like rainbows and sunshine with sprinkles on top, so, as you can imagine, this diagnoses came as a shock to me.
My psychologist believes that this especially spectacular happiness I was experiencing was years of rapid-cycling bent on the manic-side of Bipolar. Surges of creativity, optimism, productivity, delusions of grandeur and happiness—all things that allowed me to do my best artwork. Living in such extreme positivity made it very easy for me to completely ignore the negative side coupled with mania—lack of sleep, irritability, racing thoughts, impulsivity and reckless behavior. I was in such a high delusional state that I couldn't even see my problem, let alone believe that this problem affected the people around me.
Being the rebel I am, I decided that I was strong enough to deal with everything without a cocktail of medications (#THUGLIFE—right?). It took all of three days for me to change my mind. In that timespan I experienced one of the worst and most intense manic episodes I can remember.
It is difficult to nail down the exact moment or trigger that started the mania, but I knew it was coming. When I think back, it could have been the insane amount of stress that I was under or spurred by seeing my abuser—I'm not sure which straw crippled the camel, exactly. I remember driving home from work and exploding into hysterical tears. Shortly after, a Billy Joel song played on the radio and I started to laughed with the same level of hysteria. My body erupted in a fit of shaking so bad that I pulled over to park. My eyes even felt like they were shaking.
For days after my driving incident I experienced the most euphoric high I have ever felt. That high mixed with binge-drinking, averaging two-to-three hours of sleep a night and an urge to spend money like no tomorrow, led to a rapid demise—I began to descend the ladder of mania on day three, just as I was suddenly full of self-hatred and depression. My doctor couldn't see me for another week, but reality rapidly set in. I missed my high-mania immensely.
Voices were like nails on chalkboards to me, and for the first time, I understood the meaning of that saying. Every little thing felt that way. I was experiencing the deep loss of my manic-high, but I hadn't the time to properly grieve. It all became too intense and I had to be admitted into the mental health ward. During that time, I was put on many different medications, which helped for the moment, but exhausted me. I stayed in the ward for a week—a week without the sun touching my skin, going back and forth from the uncomfortable bed to the crowded group rooms. I knew the drill, because it wasn't my first time (nor will it be my last) but it's the sort of thing one doesn't get used to.
I was very lucky—my family and boyfriend visited me every day. Some people weren't as privileged. They released me to my boyfriend exactly seven days after I came; my insurance always paid for seven days, then I was sent home. I fundamentally knew I wasn't quite ready to return to my regular life, but it didn't matter—I missed the breeze, and wanted badly to get home.
Since that time, I have been experiencing ups and downs more often, trying to deal with my Bipolar Disorder. Most of my "downs" I can attribute to going off of my medications, but, as I see it, God is working on all of us; we all have our own battles. Myself, I am very far from perfect. Thankfully, with the love and support of my family I am living with it, handling it, and taking my illness one day at a time, with all its ups and downs.
