I relate to the above quote more than I would ever have admitted just a short time ago. For the last little while I've done something very similar. On my way to my brother's there is a road that winds along the coast. I love it. It's beautiful, and it used to be a part of my Sunday routine.
But a few months ago, I started avoiding the route. I couldn't bring myself to drive along those twisty roads. I'd started to notice something at a specific point on the drive: I would want to drive off. I never did, and I never really intended to, but the thought was always there. Always in the back of my mind. And at a certain point I knew I was enough of a risk to myself that I needed to stop driving that route alone.
I've talked about wanting to commit suicide before. Suicide isn't a fun topic and mentioning it brings out strong reactions in most people. Other than a particularly rough patch about five years ago, I've never actually made plans to kill myself. I even wrote about my sister saving my life at that point. I think it confused people close to me why I chose to talk about it. It seemed strange that I would think about it and need to talk about it so many years later. They just didn't understand why after all this time it was so significant.
But maybe it will make sense when I say that I think about suicide a lot-- I mean for stretches of time that go for months. Sometimes I will walk around all day wanting to die. I think about walking off the sidewalk, jumping off cliffs, and driving my car over the windy bend. It became normal somewhere between then and now.
So when my brain decided to take a major crash months ago, thinking about suicide was probably the least problematic thing happening to me at the time. The dizziness, sleep issues, trouble concentrating, and a brain so foggy I felt like I couldn't breathe were all things that bothered me so much more.
But when I finally took the step of writing down everything that was happening for a doctor, he was the most worried about suicidal thoughts. Over and over he asked me "How often do you think about killing yourself?" I remember being slightly annoyed at the question because everything else was bothering me more.
The answer to his persistent question? All. The. Time.
I thought it was normal! In my head I assumed people had thoughts like that all the time. I know, it's twisted, but I guess I felt like it didn't matter because even though I was so miserable I thought about dying all the time, I didn't have a plan or anything. In fact, I had an active plan NOT to kill myself. Like avoiding roads or going near cliffs by myself.
But on my third visit, when I was still admitting that I thought about it all the time, he pushed for me to immediately go to the local psychiatric hospital. He cared about my mental well being. That much was obvious, and for that reason alone, I agreed. I cried the entire way there.
I knew something was wrong, but I wasn't ready to face it. People often joked about being sent there. I know they didn't mean it to hurt, but all those jokes ran through my head the entire way to the hospital.
It was an awful visit.
I spent most of the visit telling them I didn't actually plan to kill myself. Was I miserable? Yes. I was having a rough time in my head, but I wasn't going to do anything and I was functioning to a point where nobody really noticed anything unless I mentioned it. I wasn't missing work, I was showing up for my commitments, and I was attempting to date like any normal 26 year old. I couldn't figure out why it was SO urgent that I be there.
I cried, joked, laughed, and got through that visit. By the time I left, I was drained and without answers. I'd dealt with a nurse who asked every question under the sun, a horrifyingly hot intern, a stern intern who made me agree with everything she said, and finally a doctor who summed it all up by asking me to please take the pills I'd been avoiding.
When I walked out and went home, I felt like I could crawl under my covers and never come out. In those rooms they had asked me how long all these things had been going on. I didn't know how to answer because it was for as long as I could remember. There were periods where it was gone, but something had always felt off. Even when I was filled with energy, taking on way more things than I should, something felt strange. I just thought I was crazy and tried not to talk about it.
After that visit, I thought all hope was gone. I started the Celexa because I hated the thought of people thinking I wasn't trying to get better, but in my head I gave up. I started dealing with the side effects and the rollercoaster that was involved in them, but I felt void of hope.
A few weeks later the phone rang. It was the hospital again. My family doctor had put me on a list for an evaluation, and they wondered if I still wanted to go in. I had already been in, I told them. They informed me that this visit would be different. It would be with one doctor. 60-90 minutes, and that would be it. I agreed, and booked the appointment.
I dreaded that visit more than I can put into words. Before I went in, I'd written it off as a waste of my time. I was sick of telling people what was going on with me, and then still going home, feeling like I was alone and crazy. But this visit was different. The doctor was nice. She asked some of the usual questions I was used to, but she didn't ask so many. I felt more comfortable talking to her and therefore joked less, and was more honest. However, I still didn't expect answers. She'd only seen me once, but this is what she thought:
I'd never heard of it before. I thought there was only one type of bipolar disorder. All I would picture when I heard that word was someone who was violent, and the hushed whispers of people when describing someone who was rumored to be diagnosed. I know that's wrong, but it's always what came to mind.
But at the very same time I heard those words, it was followed up by someone describing me. She was drawing a chart. She wasn't asking me questions I'd grown sick of answering-- she was telling me things about myself I'd kept buried deep inside for years. She was telling me things I wouldn't even think of telling her, and not only was she telling me what was happening, she was telling me why. For the first time in my life, I wasn't trying to explain my brain to someone-- someone was explaining my brain to me. I walked out of hospital that had scared me so much with the beginning of many answers.
Answers! (I still feel the hope spring up when I realize this. I can't explain how wonderful it feels.)
My entire life I couldn't figure out why I was a certain way. For so long, I have felt worthless and very scared. I hated myself for those feelings, and I wanted to stop being so selfish. "Why does everything bother you? Why can't you just let things go?" Someone had said to me years ago. I'd never had an answer, only hated myself for it.
In the last month and a half I've read articles and listened to podcasts of people who describe the same feelings as me, the same fears as me, and the same battles. There's not a lot of people who write about having Type 2, but the ones who have done so have thrown me a lifeline. For the first time in my entire life, I don't feel so completely and utterly alone. Things about my brain that have long scared me are felt by other people. When something happens inside my head that makes me want to scream, I can tell myself it's not me. It's my brain, and if I wait, it will pass.
I wish I could say that everything is perfect now. It's not. In fact, the last week has been about fighting the hopelessness that often crowds in. I've gone back to the harbour, crawled into bed, and been thankful for the kitty that makes me get up to take care of her. It's affected the people around me who are limited in knowledge of what's happening. I know I have to start a new plan of helping my brain feel okay. Whether it be writing, running, yoga, or something else. I worry that just medication (mood stabilizers instead of anti-depressants) won't work for me. I'm finally willing to take them, but I feel like my physical health is just as important if I'm going to ever going to get to feel what "normal" is.
But the thing is, before that visit to the hospital, I had no idea what Bipolar II was. Zero clue. Neither did the people closest to me. I wish so much I'd heard of it, so I could have recognized the things that happen to me and asked a doctor about it.
I don't want to overshare, but one of the most common questions people ask is whether I will be open about what is happening. A part of me doesn't want to because I feel so ashamed. There's so much fear that people will be scared of me even though I have no history of doing anything remotely scary.
Then I worry that others might not believe me, and that will hurt. A lot. "You're making this into a bigger deal than it is!" someone said to me. I cried after the conversation was done, but I knew why they said it. So many of the details have been kept close to my heart. How can I expect people to understand when I've never let them in? I don't even think that comment was meant to hurt me, but how could I explain how much the answers meant? It's a HUGE deal to finally understand what's happening. Even last week, which was an incredibly rough one, I could repeat to myself that it might not always be this way.
And that's why the other part of me wants to tell people. Because if I'd known that there were two types of bipolar disorder, I think I might have realized what was wrong with me a long time ago. Do I speak out? What good does another voice do? I don't have the influence of Carrie Fisher. I have a lot to lose, and a lot of possible judgement that might happen, if I talk more about what is happening to me.
It took upheaving my whole life, moving to Newfoundland, and hitting the absolute rock bottom, to realize what was happening to me. I don't want this to define me, I never want to use it as an excuse, but I do want to get better. I want to know what it's like to be better.
It breaks my heart that someone out there might be feeling so alone, so confused, and uncertain as to whether what's happening is all in their head. It is in their head, but it’s real and it's happening to other people too.
They aren't alone, and help is out there.
And I'm starting my journey to find it.
