https://goo.gl/S592TO
When I was five, I staged a suicide with some ketchup and a butter knife. My mom made me wear a pair of underwear that “felt funny,” and already versed in my outbursts over shoes, socks, turtlenecks, and panties, she paid my tantrum no mind. So there I strategically laid on top of a detached cabinet door in my bedroom, mindful of not staining the carpet. I wanted recognition, not revenge.
Mood disorders have a tendency to show their onset as people stumble through their mid 20s. And like clockwork, a few years after college is when I began to cycle through the unpredictable waves of euphoria, irritability, and depression. At first it started over something silly, like breaking my Hollandaise sauce while making breakfast. Other times, in utter rage of not being able to communicate my feelings, I’d throw my cell phone across the room. Instances like this always had the same outcome: me bawling, curled up in my closet or the smallest corner of the kitchen, while my boyfriend stared in bewilderment. But those depressions were short lived, and I’d explode into a stage of productivity soon after. Within a two week period, I broke up with my boyfriend who I lived with, quit my job, began the process of donating my eggs, got an unconventional piercing, and started planning a tattoo that would cover a quarter of my body. Being at this peak of my exceptional self, I attracted a person who I thought I would spend my life with. I had sunshine in my eyes and was the embodiment of joy and what a human should be. I was flying higher than I ever had before; I was manically in love.
There’s weight loss and weight gain and popped blood vessels from days of crying. There are packs of Benadryl® being eaten to stay in the sweet stillness of unconsciousness. There are moments of ferocity where you hold your breath and tie pantyhose around your neck. There are broken computers, smashed glasses and bloody knuckles. There are suicide attempts and trips to the ER and stays in the psych ward. There are hours and hours and hours of therapy.
There’s cognitive impairment from the depression and the medication. Your brain moves in slow motion, and you can’t remember when you last fed or bathed yourself. There’s the art of mixing your perfect Rx cocktail, but sometimes your meds don’t work. And sometimes they make your throat constrict in painful throbs at night. Sometimes you have to alter the dosage or change the medication all together. But it takes time for your body to adjust, so all you can do is hold on for dear life and hope you don’t hit turbulence until you reach your therapeutic level.
We don’t talk about it because it’s the hardest thing to talk about. People spend so much energy trying to keep the black holes in their lives a secret, but now all of mine is spent trying to survive. When I came out of the closet about being diagnosed with type II Bipolar Disorder, an Internet troll mocked me:“my mental illness makes me special.” Instantly he confirmed my lifelong fear — the fear of my feelings being bad! I felt discredited and patronized. And, even worse, the fear of people accusing me of seeking some sort of special treatment or pity. I don’t want your pity. I want the respect of being listened to. I’ve put too much time and money into self-care for you to doubt my diagnosis, or worse, belittle it.