In the summer of 2014, many events would transpire that would lead me to a fatal suicide attempt. I had been assaulted; someone stole $300 from me; I had gotten into a physical altercation with my roommate.
The attempt was impulsive. I wasn't able to deal with the consequences of these actions well enough to bounce back immediately or think logically. So I bought a lot of alcohol and mixed it with my medications for Bipolar disorder.
According to the doctor, I had had a seizure from this lethal combination. "You could've died," my mother later told me. "But I told the doctors that they had to save you."
I was in a coma for six days. When I woke up, my throat was sore from the intubation the doctors used to pump out the drugs. Once I was medically stable, they transferred me to the psychiatric ward where a psychiatrist could evaluate my medications and mental well-being.
After the hospitalization, I would establish a bond with the ward's psychiatrist and see him in his outside practice for treatment. In that office, I would also see a therapist weekly, if not more. I still see this team to this day for help; they're part of my support system. They're the reason I've done so well in my recovery.
It took me longer than most college students to graduate because of my instability. I was hospitalized often for suicidal ideation and emergency medication management. It wasn't an option to enroll full-time in college at the time unless I wanted to risk my mental recovery.
Because of this, my life goals had to change. I used to fantasize about what my future would look like if I followed the original path to my dreams of being a writer. I used to wonder what would have happened if I had better life skills.
But this anxiety would turn into depression quickly. As my peers continued to accomplish great things with their dedication, I would become frustrated at the slow pace my life was going.
My FOMO would affect the daily choices I made. Some nights, I would drink energy drinks and stay up late studying to be at the same pace as everyone else. To relax, I would be too friendly with strangers and trust them too easily.
My life changed when I was hospitalized three times in two months in 2016. My close friends were concerned for me. I still wasn't dealing with the aftermath of the assault and chose the wrong way to recover from it. I had to live in an assisted living facility (ALF) to find that stability that everyone else wanted for me.
Living at the ALF proved successful. I took some college classes while enrolled in a partial hospitalization program and learned how to successfully manage and communicate the symptoms of my illness. I would graduate from college and not be hospitalized for a year and a half – two great accomplishments.
But there are days where I contemplate the meaning of my life at this plateau. While it makes me depressed to know that I am turning 27 years old and live with my family once again, I tell myself that I am stable and safe in my journey with Bipolar.
That counts for something, especially as an illness like Bipolar complicates and takes lives. I don't care anymore that I don't get paid to write. Because what I cherish is my recovery.
That's all that matters.
