I’ve stood staring into the misty abyss. I know what it’s
like balance precariously on the precipice of insanity, one small step from
total destruction. Yet I have always managed to back down. I’ve pulled myself
back, never crossing that dark threshold. But no sooner have I saved myself
than I rocket in the opposite direction, uncontrollably scaling the mountain of
emotions. The peak seems so near. I can’t control myself. I’m moving at a
thousand miles an hour. My thoughts dash in and out of my mind. It is the most
wonderful feeling, the polar opposite of that dark, foggy chasm. And then I
tumble from the peak back down.
That’s
what I deal with. That’s what it’s like being bipolar. The constant cycling
back and forth, moving from one end of the insanity spectrum to the other. It’s
difficult to describe to someone what being Bipolar feels like. I try hard to
describe the emotional highs and depraved lows. It’s important for everyone to
understand what this disease does to those who suffer from it and what they can
do. So I speak to you from the edge of insanity and relate to you my
experiences.
I was
diagnosed seven years ago. However in retrospect I can identify the symptoms beginning
much earlier. Melancholy slowly squeezed my soul while I was in college,
certainly not as severe as it would become, but there nonetheless. The sun
would then rise on another set of feelings. I would be able read (my favorite
activity) for hours on end, with little sleep. School seemed to breeze by. And
then anger would burst forth from this high. I remember being cut off by a
terrible driver on my way home from school and completely losing my mind. I
screamed at the driver, tailgating them for over a mile, horn blaring. When I
got home, I was suddenly overcome with guilt, and then I felt lousy again. I
simply felt this was the normal way of things. It never occurred to me that
something was actually wrong.
Things
went on like this for several years. I graduated from college and got accepted
to law school. The first year of classes was challenging, I wasn’t used to
having to expend so much energy to achieve the results I wanted. But my highs
seemed to coincide with the times I needed to get the most work done, allowing
me to be as productive as I could be. The trouble began in the second semester
of my second year. I remember it like it was yesterday. The depression blanketed
me like it had done many times before. Only this time the shroud didn’t lift.
In fact it pulled tighter, suffocating me with dark thoughts. A week went by
and nothing changed. I hadn’t shaved, only taken a few showers. It was all I
could do to even rouse myself from my bed. I wanted to die. I could picture the
world without me, and it would be a better place. Forget about schoolwork, I
couldn’t even function. This sort of depression is difficult for someone who
has never experienced it to grasp. It isn’t like the sadness that manifests
itself when your pet dies or you miss out on a job opportunity. It cuts deeper.
Enveloping you entire mind, you cannot escape it. With typical sadness, you can
distract yourself with hobbies and friends. With depression nothing can save
you. Activities that once saturated you with pleasure seem colorless. No amount
of positive thinking can help you escape from the darkness.
I
needed help and my family knew it. An appointment was made for my physician. I
showed up on time, haggard but somewhat presentable. I told him how I felt and
he handed me some antidepressants. I was to take a pill every day and I should
begin to feel better. I had nothing to lose, and I certainly wouldn’t question
what my doctor said so I went away with several sample boxes of pills and a
prescription.
I
thought everything was going to be OK, that things would finally settle down
and be normal. But alas, that was not to be. The pall of gloominess dissipated
and for a few days I felt emotionally neutral. Maybe the pills were working.
But suddenly things sped up. My thoughts began to race, my pace began to
accelerate. Ideas, concoctions of money making schemes and novel inventions
resounded through my mind. I felt as though I could solve all the world’s
problems if only given the chance. I devoured books, on any topic: classical
literature, modern history, anything really. I bought things; my credit card
began to see its available credit dwindle substantially. Sleep was reduced to
several hours a night because I need the time during the day to plot my next
fabulous idea. To anyone else, all this seemed grandiose, figments of a
creative imagination. But I knew better. To me it was real. I could do
anything.
Then it
happened again. The rage returned. I became frustrated. Fire engulfed the
exuberant thoughts that bounced through my head. Everything was falling apart again.
The pills weren’t working. The oscillating cycle kept going.
I knew
I needed to see a doctor, someone that specialized in this sort of thing. I
never really thought of myself as crazy, but my judgment was edging closer and
closer to it each day. So I went to a psychiatrist. I felt awkward as I entered
the office and sat in the anteroom. I didn’t know what to say. My depression
was certainly going to be a topic, but what about the highs? The periods were I
felt invincible? Finally the door opened and I was greeted with a warm smile
and invited into the office. I sat down, still a bit nervous. After a brief introduction
he asked me to describe what was wrong and took a detailed family history. I
related the troubling bouts of melancholy that had torn me apart, and this time
added narcotic like experiences to my roster of problems. I shouldn’t behave
that way and I knew it. I loved the feeling the “ups” gave me, but hated the
inevitable crash that followed it, the anger, guilt, and depression. I needed
help. And thankfully I was able to procure some. That was when I discovered
Bipolar Disorder.
Suddenly
the highs and lows made sense in that context. Everything that had transpired
made sense. The void of ignorance was filled. My doctor and I took me off the
antidepressants and came up with a new treatment plan, with medications that
targeted this specific disorder. We agreed to continue therapy to help wade
through the murky waters that covered my life experiences when taken over by
the disease. And it helped.
Being
in control now I can stand tall and see all the signs and notice all the
problems I had. But when experiencing them I was in the dark, hopeless and
without a guiding light. It is my desire that I can now give a voice to those
with Bipolar Disorder, that I can address their concerns and give them answers.
Going forward into the future, this is
where you can find an outlet for our disease.
