please don't be scared of me.

I was shaking in his office.

“I’m too scared to tell anyone what’s happening.” I repeated over and over to my psychologist.

 It wasn’t the normal kind of shaking. I couldn’t stop. Everything felt like it was going at high speed. My thoughts were racing. I couldn’t form a sentence properly, but I needed to get it out. I had no idea how to tell people without them being scared of me.

In the last few years, I think there have been HUGE strides in talking about mental health—but there’s a long way to go. What I don’t see discussed very often, is the challenges of bipolar disorders, borderline personality disorders, and schizophrenia. We’re getting comfortable talking about how hard and dark depression is and we’re getting comfortable explaining panic attacks and anxiety. I’m willing to explain that side of it regularly.

It’s huge progress. I’m glad people can come out of those lonely corners and be told they are not alone.

But there’s a long way to go.

Growing up, there were two people I knew who had bipolar disorder. I have very distinct memories of one going to the hospital and the reactions of people when it happened. The other was someone who eventually murdered his sister.

That was it. They were the two people I associated with having bipolar disorder. When I would go and talk to professionals about getting help, they would ask me questions. I didn’t want to tell them everything. I remember specifically worrying that they would say I was bipolar. If they thought I was bipolar then then everyone would automatically be scared of me.

I’ve been struggling for months with intense bouts hypo-mania. It happened first in February. I woke up on a Monday morning and felt GREAT. I tweeted about it. I felt confident. I went to work and powered through an incredible amount of work in one day when it would normally take me three.

one of the things that is wonderful about hypo mania is seeing the colours in everything.

Then came the HYPER FOCUS. I couldn’t think about more than one thing. I was obsessed with it. I was up at night with racing thoughts that would not stop. I had such a big panic attack at work that I left for the day. This was the first and only time I’ve left work for the rest of the day because of my mental health. My coworkers still don’t know how bad it was.

I was so sexually charged that I thought I would lose my mind. This is a deeply personal thing to share and I’ve debated whether I should write about it. I want to educate you. I’m not telling you to be gross or give too many details—but because I want people to know what it’s like. All I’m going to say is that it’s extremely frustrating and quite possibly one of the most shameful things I’ve dealt with for years without telling anyone. One doctor explained what was happening years ago, but at the time we had no idea it was because of a mental health problem.

I crashed five days after the hypo-mania started. I knew the second it happened, but wasn’t until an hour later that I realized how hypo manic I’d been.

Sitting on the couch in silence with my friend—my heart sank. I’d been so sick that I hadn’t even realized it. I’ve always prided myself on being self-aware. It’d been years since such a bad hypo-manic episode. I’ve had them since moving here, but this one was different. I called my mother to compare details from eight years ago. I talked to my friend. They all confirmed my fears.

it helps to organize physical things when i can’t organize my brain.

For the last few months, I’ve cycled all over the place.

My skin has itched and my legs gone numb. I’ve been up at night trying my best to not scratch until I bleed. I’d coat myself with coconut oil and dab tea tree oil on spots. I ended up looking for a new car (I drive standard and didn’t want to use my left leg as much.) because I wasn’t sure how long the numbness would last. I knew it was there because of what was in my head, but the symptoms were still real. 

The paranoia drives me crazy. I was convinced all the time that people were directing things towards me. I constantly fought with my mind to remind myself over and over that I probably wasn’t seeing things clearly. I stayed quiet so I wouldn’t have to communicate with people and be left with the agony of wondering if I was reading into their words all wrong.

The worst of it was just a few weeks ago.

I’ve always been terrified of being dangerous. Sometimes I get a rage inside of me so powerful that I get a headache from trying to suppress it. I went through the McDonald’s drive thru one day when I was sick and they forgot to give me salt and pepper. I was so mad I wanted to shriek. I wanted to turn around and yell at them. The anger bubbled and boiled until I felt like I was a bomb on the brink of exploding.

Over and over, I repeated to myself that this was not normal. I repeated to myself that it was not their fault. Mistakes happen all the time. I knew I was being irrational. I repeated to myself that this was my problem and not theirs. But the rage persisted.

Never once did I consider violence, but my head ached with trying to hold the irrational rage inside. I sobbed with self-hatred, wishing I could fix myself.

When I got to work and sat down, I emailed my psychologist. He agreed to see me right away.

When I got there and sat in his office, I cried about all the thoughts I’d been trying to push away, all the urges and emotions that I couldn’t tell anyone, all the shaking, all the racing ideas and shininess in my brain that felt like I was without sunglasses on a blinding sunny day.

I repeated over and over that people would think I was crazy if they knew. They would assume I would do something. People would be scared of me. People only know about what they read in the news.

 I felt incredible relief to get it off my chest. SOMEONE was hearing me. He said I wasn’t dangerous to others. He said he wasn’t scared of me, BUT he called my friend (with permission) and explained to him that I was hypo manic. My friend agreed to call him if he started to worry I would do something.

Two nights later I woke up in the middle of the night. I’m used to having nightmares. I often wake up completely paralyzed with fear but I tell myself it’s  just bad dreams. I always know they are just dreams.

That night I woke up confused about what was happening. I was in bed trying to sort through what was real and what wasn’t. My cats were on the bed and I was scared that I had shoved one of them in annoyance for waking me up. I couldn’t sort out what was happening. My thoughts raced. I still don’t know if I tweeted something and then deleted it. I’m pretty sure I was screaming in terror.

But what scared me the most—was the worry I would become dangerous. It’s an irrational thought, but I was terrified that I would do something. I’ve never had a history of violence, but it is without a doubt my biggest fear. When people hear about bipolar—it is often used on the stand as a defense.

My thoughts started to race faster. Was I losing touch with reality? Would I do something without realizing it? I panicked.

“KILL YOURSELF.”

The thought was frantic. I could not do something to anyone. I couldn’t. I couldn’t put people through the agony of watching me slip away mentally from them. I would not do that. I would rather die.

I wanted to leap out of bed and immediately go through with it.

I don’t know what kept me there. But I can say that it is the most out of control and the closest I have ever come to going through with it. It was not the sluggish pain of living day to day. All my precautions I put in place for when I am depressed went out the window and I had no reminders of why to live—just the urgency of protecting people from seeing the crazy inside my head.

I did not want to be out of control. I would have preferred to take my life than do something.

An hour later, I fell back asleep.

The terror of that night stuck with me. Should I tell someone?

I did. With the memory of my understanding therapist, I told my roommate. She was gone the night this happened, but I knew that she deserved to know. A part of me expected her to move out. I figured she would be terrified and not want to be around me. I didn’t blame her.

Instead, she asked me how she could help in that moment if it were to happen again. She asked me what to do if she was overwhelmed. I asked my sister in-law if she would be an emergency contact. She agreed. So I gave them numbers and told them both I trusted their judgment.

She left the door open that week, telling me she wanted to hear if I needed her. When she left for a few nights, my friend stayed over for one night to make sure I was okay. I woke up that night so scared, but I was okay because I knew he was in the loft. Both my friend and roommate assured me that I was not a burden.

I went back to my psychologist a few days later feeling a little bit calmer. I was still unstable, but less scared of myself. Less out of control.

The days since then have been hard. I have no idea how I am doing from day to day. I’ve drank too much and felt way too sorry for myself.

But I believe I’m slowly going back to a baseline of normal. I have to hope for that. Hope gets me through each day.

Why am I telling you this?

Because I know this disease is misunderstood and I know a lot of people don’t talk about it. I’m not saying every person with bipolar II feels this way. I worry some who have it will tell me this is nothing like their experience. I do not claim to represent everyone.

But the other part of me thinks people should know more. About more than just the depression and good parts of the highs. So they don’t think people with the disease are crazy and scary. Yes, my biggest fears are there when I’m angry or feeling out of control. But many in my circle have reassured me over and over that they are not scared of me and brought me back when my thoughts become irrational.

a few of the many who are there for me when i’m not okay. i am undeserving of the support system i have.

I dream of there being more understanding in this world. Maybe talking about it will bring it out of the shadows and help people feel less crazy and more like asking for help. Without a doubt, the reason I get through those episodes is because I now understand what is happening and I have the help of a support system I couldn’t function without.

I hope one day everyone will feel less afraid to talk about all of it.

Bipolar I and II.

Schizophrenia.

Borderline Personality Disorder

And all the other ones I don’t know about.

I still don’t know enough about those illnesses. I know I still have misconceptions. I know I have been part of the problem.

But what I do know is that they are all people deserving of compassion and no matter how sick they are—even if they are in the news for doing something— they deserve more and better. Our health system is failing them. Many people are as sick as they are because of lack of understanding and resources.

Leaping out of bed and wanting to end my life shouldn’t have felt like the solution because I was scared of people knowing what the disease does to my brain.

Please don’t be scared of me. I hope you understand.

a lot of people know about the struggles of inside my head, but many do not. this is the only part of me they ever meet. there might be someone like that in your life. they might be hiding it because they are worried about the repercussions of sharing.

sick at work

It’s 1:00 AM and I can’t sleep. My mind is racing. Another change has been made at my office and I know my workload is about to get bigger. I know it’s going to take some problem solving to figure out how to fit it into my routine. My mind races with different scenarios. After an hour, I’ve finally solved it. It’s 2:00 AM. Then the questions start.

Do I share my idea with my office?

Will I seem too commanding?

What if they think it’s stupid?

Will my manager care?

What do I do?

My mind races even quicker. I spend another hour going through every scenario—trying to make sure I won’t offend people when I mention it, but still figure out a way to be productive as possible.

I’m up at 6:15 the next day. Normally, I’m up at 7:00 AM but I’m focused on my idea for how to be a better worker. I watch the sunrise with a racing heart. I’m ready for work early and I’m restless. Should I listen to music?

Finally, I get in my car. What do I listen to? I have no idea what I want. Fast or slow?

It’s a beautiful day with the sun shining!! Wow. Should I take a picture?

I’m at the bottom of Shea Heights when a blog idea hits me. I spend the rest of the drive to work focusing on what I want to type. The words tumble around in my brain and I’m excited at the possibility of getting words out after weeks of nothing.

I arrive to work full of optimism. I sit down in my chair—check the news on Twitter, look at Instagram, turn on my music and dive in.

I’m so productive. Is it 10 AM already? I’ve completed so many projects and sent so many emails! I’m going to get caught up!!! The excitement in my head rises. Do I tell them about my idea?

There’s something frightening bubbling. It feels intense and much too powerful. I push it away. I’m being productive. This is a good thing.

I email my boss and explain my idea. Filled with excitement, I share it with some of my coworkers. Not all of them like it. They wish I had consulted them. I have no idea how to process this. I care so much about my job, how can they not see that? I didn’t want to offend them, do I apologize? Do they hate me? I know they hate me. My heart races even quicker.

Why don’t they understand? I don’t know if I can breathe. I say I’m going to get coffee and leave the office. I listen to music. The panic rises. I feel all over the place. Things are shiny and on high speed. Something is wrong but I don’t want to think about it.

It’s back to the office. I sit with my headphones in and working at top speed. Are they going to fire me? My boss hates me. I can’t afford to lose my job. I’m in major debt. I have a mortgage. He hates me. He will fire me. I know I’m on twitter a lot but my tasks are sky high. What if he thinks I don’t do enough? My thoughts are all over the place.

Someone posts something online that makes me shake with anger. Actually, I think I’ve been shaking all day now that I think about it.

By 1PM I’ve done a full day’s work.

Do I keep pushing on? Or do I slow down?

Today I’m going to keep going. It means that I don’t have to do as much in the coming days if things calm.

I want to reply to my text messages.

Do I want to volunteer next week?

I want to dance.

Maybe I should date again.

Everything is shiny and intense.

I hate it. I love it.

TRIGGER WARNING

Two weeks later I open my eyes to a new day.

I’ve slept in. My entire body feels heavy. How am I going to get out of bed? It’s 7:15 AM. I’ve slept in. I roll out of bed and run to the shower. I skip shaving. I skip using conditioner. I know my hair will be up today anyway. How many hours until I can crawl back in bed?

The cats meowing feels like daggers in my ears. Why won’t they be quiet? I get dressed and sit in my chair. The sunrise is beautiful and I take a picture. I feel foggy, but I know it is beautiful and a slight flicker of hope sparks inside.

I leave for work. I listen to sad music in the car. My arms feel heavy. I pass the rock where I know I would kill myself if I do follow through with my plan. Wouldn’t people be better off if I did it? I have the plan. I know how to make it happen and make it look like an accident so my life insurance would be paid out.

There would be no debt. I know others would be helped with the money I’ve willed out.

I cry when I think about going to work. I’m terrible at my job. What if they know how depressed I am today? How do I hide it? The tears won’t stop. Maybe if I cry now then I won’t later. No, a plan needs to happen. This happens. I mentally prepare how to be productive today.

I’ll work on binders. Those need to be done and I can do them without thought. I’ll do all the easy renewals. Hopefully there are no complicated messes I’ve made. Everyone else is better than me. Would they even care if I quit? Would they notice if I died?

I arrive at work and I try to appear normal. Ask them about their night. Do they think I’m grumpy? I sit down and realize I don’t want to listen to music. I put my headphones in but nothing is playing. I feel dead. What if they think I hate them?

My arms feel heavy and the desk feels like it’s tipping. I don’t think I can do it. I hear the happy chatter around me and everything feels dark in my bubble. What do I do? I’m not going to be able to stop crying. I rush out to my car and cry. I fumble for my phone. I dial my sister’s number. No answer. Is Ashley working from home today? I dial her number. No answer. I could call Lynn. She would be nice about it.

I sit there feeling like a burden to everyone. Why do my eyelids feel so heavy and painful? Two minutes later they text me. “Are you okay?” they ask. I don’t reply. All I want to do is die. I don’t feel like I can do it anymore.

Suddenly I realize it’s been ten minutes so I go back in. I know my eyes are red. I go straight to the washroom and splash water on my eyes. I know that I won’t be able to take a lunch today. It’s important to stay on top of my work and it feels like I’m going in slow motion.

The afternoon drags on. My legs are itchy. My back is aching.  A pain that’s been there for weeks is making me scared. Should I go to the hospital or is it all in my head? I despise myself.

Wouldn’t it be better to be dead? The cycle is endless. I know people expect me to be positive because I am most of the time. But I don’t feel strong. The stats are against me.

I fight. I can’t let myself daydream anymore. I shut down those thoughts. I promised Kylie that I would never go through with it.

I start thinking about the good things of the day. I tweet a few of them. They’ll be a reminder later when I’m at home alone.

I need to focus on being productive. Not take this job for granted.

Binders.

My eyes start to well up again. I know my coworker can see. I’m so embarrassed and it’s important not to wipe my eyes so the movement doesn’t make her look up. I’m sniffing. Damn sniffing. It’s always the giveaway. She must think I’m so messed up.

How many hours until I can go home to bed?

Calvin sends me a text.

“Just a reminder that you make my life better. Remember you’re loved. Do you want to see me after work?”

I don’t. But he will know something is really wrong if I say no. I suspect I’m getting this message because he already knows.

I put the headphones in again.

It’s dark and foggy, but I force myself to focus on looking to the end of the tunnel. I KNOW it’s good I understand what’s happening. But I’m tired. So tired.

I need to go to bed.

____________________________________________

A long time ago, someone told me they don’t understand how I have a steady and good job. How do I manage to keep it, they wonder. Aren’t people with bipolar too sick to keep a job?

The question was posed to me once again recently—an air of disbelief about my diagnosis.

The truth is that most days I don’t understand how I’ve managed—but I do know that I am SO thankful for it. How do I do it? I plan. During stable times I’ve tried to figure out action plans. And I have stable times much more than I used to.

Even though it doesn’t feel like it, I think I do hide the worst of it. Often hid under what looks like hyper activity and grumpiness. I know I’m not always easy to work with and I’m very thankful my coworkers put up with it. I’m scared of excusing my behaviour when I shouldn’t. My manager is aware of what I have, and sometimes I wonder if I should explain more. I NEVER want to tell her. But please be very aware that I am thankful for them.

I’m grateful for work. I’m terrified of losing it. I LOVE the actual work I do. It’s enjoyable and interesting. Is it a huge challenge to keep being a good employee? Yes. But I would say that I truly think I am a better worker because I plan so obsessively for the highs and lows. I worry about not being enough.

I know how lucky I am to be functional enough to keep working. I know many can’t and it’s something I shouldn’t take for granted even though I sometimes do.

But to question someone’s mental illness because their life appears to be normal is not okay. It’s incredibly hurtful to say that someone doesn’t seem to be sick enough. Those words have whirled in my brain when I want to die. The selfish thought of “Maybe they will understand now!” When the hypo mania brings a shaking intensity and panic attacks—I wonder “Will they take it seriously if I let them in to see how awful and scary it is?” I decide against both.

I have Bipolar 2.

I have a good job.

Both are possible.

the aftermath of suicide when you're reading the news *trigger warning*

The post hit me like a ton of bricks. I loved every word it said, but the tone of the tweet was all too familiar. A tone I wish I hadn't come to know-- but all the same, I knew it probably meant something bad happened.

It sounded like someone David loved had taken their life. But because I didn't think it was my place to ask, I just scrolled through my feed hoping I was wrong. I didn't see anything else that hinted another tragedy had occurred. So when a few hours went by, and nothing else popped up, I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it had just been a regular post , I told myself. I shouldn't have assumed. It was nice to know people were reaching out to friends without a tragedy prompting it.

But my original fear had been right.

It was almost time for bed when I saw it. A woman on social media shared a picture with a young man, about my age, and with the confirmation he'd passed away. My heart sunk and my chest tightened. I texted my friend about it. "Get off Twitter for the next few days." They messaged back. "It would be a good idea."

Of course, I didn't listen to them. 

Over the next 24 hours, my feed was flooded with people talking about the young man. They shared memories and photos. It was clear he'd been a kind and inspiring human. They talked about his cheery demeanor, his abilities as a journalist, and how much he would be missed. 

I couldn't help but read it all. My heart broke for him. I'd only known of him, but with each shared memory that surfaced, the more I wished he could read it all. The fog I've come to know so well came rushing in. By the afternoon of the next day, I was shaking at my desk and trying everything within my power to not let the person beside me know I was having a panic attack.

Another person had left this earth by their own choice. I understood why he made that choice. I used to fight the urge for months on end. I would go for so long with suicidal ideation that I'd forget what it was like to want to be alive. 

Each time a suicide happens, I am reminded that 15% of people with my mental illness will die by suicide. Out of 100 people, 15 will choose to end the darkness that surrounds them.

From everything I've read, it sounds like Meech Kean was a wonderful human with a bright and energetic light. He was strong and didn't give up.  But last weekend, darkness crowded in too close. Nothing in me thinks he was weak when he made the choice to end his life.

Immediately my brain started to question. How am I supposed to keep going knowing that he was a much stronger person than I am? Sometimes the fight doesn't seem worth fighting. Over the last year I've read about others with that bright light, others with strength and so much to live for, who decided to leave this earth.

The reality of knowing someone much stronger than me took their own life triggers hopelessness. I don't have unending strength and humour. 

A while ago, there were articles all over the news about a certain person taking their own life. When I heard it, I hid in a closet and cried. Once again I asked myself what the point was. The person had been fighting their darkness for years, but had rallied many times over. They were strong. They were wonderful.

The following month was spent trying to fight back against the worry I wouldn't be able to last if someone strong, like that person in the news, found the pain too much. One of the things that continued to set me off was the coverage. As each word was processed, I started to wonder if I was missing out. If I killed myself, would my brain I've been fighting so long finally have peace? 

That time, I was so troubled by the coverage that I went so far as to plan what I would do. Writing down each way that would cause the least stress to first responders. Yes, I might choose to end the pain, but I didn't want to cause any to people who stayed on earth.

I didn't go ahead with it. I came out of the darkness. The colour came back to my life and once again I enjoyed being alive. That dark time taught me that reading about suicide was a massive trigger. The news coverage sometimes had a way of making it seem like a somewhat good ending.

It's such a fine line. We hope and pray that someone who passes away rests in peace. We hope they rest in power. I'm not saying either are untrue. But for the ones fighting the battle, they need to know why they should continue to fight back against the darkness.

As the tweets and facebook posts appeared about Meech, I became more and more scared. This was a journalist. There would be a lot of coverage about him.  And I was right. VOCM. CBC. The Telegram. NTV. He deserved to be remember with so much love and I wanted that. But how would they present it to those fighting their mental illness?

But there was a difference this time. They treated the news with care. With each article posted, there was a link to a mental health crisis line and a plea to reach out for help if it was needed. On the online talk shows, they didn't hide that it was a suicide, but spoke with sensitivity and no judgement. Every single time, resources of how and where to get help were shared.

And I know I'm only one person, but I was really impressed. I think it shows that we are learning how to approach the conversation better. Death by suicide is often hidden, and we should respect people's privacy, but we also need to learn how to report about suicide if it’s out in the open.

Newfoundland and Labrador's media outlets did a really wonderful job this week. Yes, the news still triggered me. I came home from work the afternoon social media blew up and went straight to bed. I worked from home the next day. And I still had to fight the worry of giving in to being a stat.

But the media coverage reminded me there's hope. Reach out for help. Please know you're worth something. There are people who love you and want to be there for you. Those reminders were repeated just as much as remembering Meech.

Friends checked in on me. That's another thing people need to learn about more-- to reach out without someone telling you they need help. The posts go up saying that if someone ever needs to talk, they are there. But what needs to happen, just like the tweet posted by David said, is to stop on a random day, and text that person to check in on them. Your strongest friend. Your weakest friend. But it's not your fault if you don't reach out. An open and honest conversation about suicide is a recent thing. We're continuing to learn. It is someone's choice.

I hope that Meech Kean knows how much his death was handled with care by his colleagues. The media even talked about just how careful they need to be when news like this comes out. For the first time since I’ve been reading about suicides, I thought the the entire media offered more options.

That is a huge step. In fact, I think if the memory of someone who chooses to take their life can be honoured, but at the same time encourage others to get help, it could save lives.

Because for the ones who continue to struggle, we need to be reminded why we should continue to live.

____________________________________________________________________

If you're someone who fights your brain. I'm begging of you not to take your life. I do not know who you are. I cannot say I love you. But I can say that I know you make this earth better. You are needed. It's worth fighting to live. I PROMISE someone cares. I know it's hard to ask for help, but text someone. Call your friend, even if you're scared they don't care. If there's no one you can contact-- there are places to call that will fight to get you help.

Please know you are wanted here.

We'll never run out of good people*

When I first moved to the downtown area from Petty Harbour in the spring of 2015, I was terrified. I’d become accustomed to my quiet haven and couldn’t imagine living in Town where the buildings closed in around me. It was just a short 15 minutes away, but I dreaded not knowing the people I'd walk by each day.

Shortly after that move, I started going to the Rocket Bakery each morning. I’d sleepily push my way through the door around 7:30 AM and order my usual: large light roast and a cinnamon roll. I took comfort in the routine.

After a few weeks, the staff started knowing my order by heart. They’d greet me with a smile each day and ask how my life was going. 

They had no idea how much it meant to me. Sometimes when I felt extra lonely, I’d go down in the evening just to see a familiar face. So when Christmas rolled around, I wrote a card trying to explain how grateful I was for their existence. I was embarrassed, but wanted to thank them for what they’d done.

Sometimes it’s really hard to see the good in the world. News of Trump, abuse, the failing economy, racism, bombings, and more, are constantly in our faces. People shout at each other from both sides of the spectrum, hoping each other will smarten up and see their point of view.

And sometimes, our brains are so full of fog that we can hardly see anything but the ground in front of us. We put one foot in front of the other, trying to push through the depression, anxiety, and stress of our own lives.

I’m one of those people. On Saturday afternoon I curled up in my bed and tried to drown out the noise of my brain even though my house was silent and empty. Leonard curled up beside me and meowed occasionally to remind me that I was loved.

If I’m being perfectly honest, sometimes it’s hard for me to see outside of my own misery. I definitely struggle with depression, but there are times in my life where I know part of the problem is that I’ve stopped trying to find the good.

When I woke up on Sunday morning, I told myself that something had to change. It was okay to be depressed, I told myself, but I needed to start appreciating the people and the good in my life.

And so began a few days of going over my appreciation for people who haven’t been selfish. People who are good, kind, and generous—people who prove that the world isn’t as bad as we sometimes claim.

Like Shelley, who on Saturday morning, invited me out for a walk in the sunshine. As we walked with Brigus she offered her listening ear and never-ending encouragement.

Then there is Ashley who never fails to pick up the phone, even when she’s busy. The person who showed up when Jean passed away because she knew that I needed someone.

It’s the person who answered a few weeks ago when I was sinking so far into the fog I wasn’t sure I could drag myself out. They told me that if I needed them to come out, they would be there. That person had plans, but was willing to drop them to help.

It’s the person in my life who, even though we believe very different things, doesn’t judge me. Who wants to talk and let me live my life even though I’ve hurt them.

There's Karen who always takes a few seconds to say hi to me at the waterShed and lets me buy extra cookies so I can have my fix during the winter.

It’s the countless people on Twitter who’ve DM’d to say they have a listening ear and are cheering for me. I've deleted Instagram and Facebook, which has been so much easier than I expected, but I find myself always wanting to stay on Twitter. They've accepted me in my loneliness. There are some days where the only people who know what I'm thinking, are those few who send words on encouragement. Critics talk about the addiction of approval -- but I don't feel that with Twitter. I feel like I belong in a strange little world. There have been many people who've made a huge difference. In small ways like sharing joy from their corner of the city and in big ways like letting me know I'm not alone.

It’s the friends who shoot you a text after months of silence and say that they’re thinking of you.

It’s the people on the street who give you a smile. It’s the bartender who makes a joke and makes you feel a little less silly for being there alone. It's the cashier at Belbin's who memorized my account number and told me that I was now a regular.

There's the girl on my dodge ball team who turned to me two weeks ago and told me she was having a birthday get together. "I'm inviting the entire team." she told me. "You should come!"

How in the world could I tell her how much that meant? Dodge ball is something I have this crazy love and hate relationship with. I'm the worst player on the team and I'm always mortified at my skills. However, when I get over myself, I'm so grateful to be a part of it all. It feels so good to get out with a group of people my age and just have fun. They cheer when I'm the last one standing. We high five each other. We do our three hip hip hoorays.

I usually leave with a huge smile on my face. A huge feat in the middle of the foggiest of days.

It might all seem like small things—things in passing that seem normal because we’ve started to take them for granted in our lives.

But really? They are huge. If you're reading this and you think that your smile, your kind words, or your small acts of care are useless... think again. This post might seem cheesy, but I'm writing it because in the middle of everything, all these things have shone as bright spots in my life.

A month ago I got a message from a woman named Kayla. I'd been off Twitter for a week, and she'd noticed. She reached out to ask me if I was okay, but then mentioned that there was a trivia night and asked me if I wanted to go. I know NOTHING about Disney (the theme of the night) but I agreed to do it because I knew that I needed something to look forward to.

In the two weeks leading up to the event, I was a mess. Last week I was going to bed as early as possible even though I couldn't sleep.

But I knew I had to be okay on that Monday. Perhaps this seems silly to anyone reading, but it's a big deal to get up for things when life is crushing you. On Monday evening my stomach was churning. I walked through the doors of the building and scanned the crowd for Kayla. She raised her arms and waved me over.

The next two hours were spent on remembering everything we could about Disney. I knew almost nothing except for two answers (yay!) but it wasn't about that. It was about what amazing people they are. They didn't know me all that well, but they were nice anyway.

I drove home feeling a lot less lonely, and a lot more grateful.

Today was not a good day. The sunrise was beautiful, but disappointments at work kept hitting me. I didn't want to focus on the good.

So I forced myself to do this blog entry.

Yeah, life is tough and some people are cruel, but there is so much good. There's so many more people that I haven't mentioned.

Sometimes we can't find the good within ourselves, but I think it's always in others.

*Title is from the song 'Good People' by Great Big Sea

In case the call for help goes wrong

When I write a personal blog, I always tell myself that I don’t have to share it and it doesn't matter if people read it. Oh, and that it's too long. My posts are ALWAYS too long.

I don’t have to share this one either, but it’s the first time I’m writing a post thinking some people should read what it says. Not because I think my words are important, but because of what happened.

I have Bipolar Type 2. It's not the type of bipolar disorder you're probably thinking of, because there are two types of the disorder. Type 1 is what people usually think of when they hear the term. Anyway, Type 2 means I get amazing bursts of creativity, productivity, and energy. It also means that I can be depressed for long periods of time. Because I'm a woman, I'm more prone to depression-- and when the depression goes untreated, it gets worse and worse.

I’m cringing with shame as I type this. Not because it's a secret, but because it still makes me feel like I’m less worthy of many things. Love. Acceptance. Friends. I know that’s nonsense, of course. I’ve told many friends who struggle that they are strong and amazing humans who should never be ashamed.

But we hold ourselves to a higher standard sometimes, don’t we?

I’m going to be painfully honest with you right now.

Early last month I called the mental health crisis line. I wasn’t suicidal, but I wasn’t okay and I knew it. I’d only ever called the crisis line one time before. I used to think it was only for those who were struggling with suicidal thoughts. But when I spoke to several people in the mental health profession who were giving me tools to help myself—they told me to never be afraid to use the help line. So, I took them at their word.

I would retweet when Eastern Health posted the number. I’d mention it to friends—telling them to never be afraid to call if they were in a crisis and didn’t know where to turn. It was important to me to remind people that it was an option.

Still. It was my last resort.

So on the night I called, I was definitely in rough shape.

Over the last year and a half I’ve become extremely self aware of when I’m about to tip into a crisis. I’ve taught myself to catch the signs quickly. I used to live in what they would call "suicidal ideation." Living that way is gone, but sometimes the thoughts creeps back and I usually try to fight back as soon as possible.

So when I felt the panic and what I can only describe as darkness and fog creep in that night, I was scared. I had medication on hand for emergencies, and for the first time since the death of a close friend, I knew to take it. I swallowed the pill. I figured I had about 20 minutes until it kicked in.

I climbed in bed and weighed out my options. There's one thing I know I need more than anything when I’m about to decline-- and that is to talk to someone and be distracted. It was late at night and I didn’t want to bother anyone. Still. It wouldn’t stop. I didn’t know what to do. Desperate to not let my brain win, I picked up the phone and dialed the number. 

“Hi.” I said. I felt so awkward. Calling the help line is the worst. It means I’ve hit rock bottom and I never know how to approach it. Usually I try to laugh and be brutally honest. So, as my voice shook with nervous laughter, I told the person on the line that I was not suicidal. However, I also told them I was not okay and that I needed to talk to someone while I waited for the pill to kick in. If I did that, it was more likely that I wouldn’t go into a panic and spiral downwards because I do have the tendency to be.

There was a funny silence on the other end. And my stomach started to twist in knots. I tend to talk light-heartedly when I’m really bad. I knew I’d told the person I wasn’t okay, but what if they didn’t believe me?

“So you’re just feeling anxious, are ya?” Their voice sounded disinterested and the knots in my stomach got bigger.

I stuttered through my words. JUST anxious? I was so much more than that. I didn’t know what to do. I tried again, probably failing miserably in making them understand.

There was a long pause.

By now I was confused. Why in the world were they being so quiet? Did they hang up? Were they listening? “Are you there?” I finally asked.

“Oh yeah.” They sounded distracted and slightly annoyed.

I gulped. I’d made a mistake. So I told them to forget it and that I should probably go to bed.

They seemed confused. “You gonna be okay?”

I almost laughed out loud. Of all the things I might have failed to communicate, I had told the person that I was in fact, not okay. But I didn’t want to bother them. I felt as though I’d interrupted someone watching a movie, sleeping, or something else.

“I will be.” I added my goodbye, and hung up the phone.

And that was the truth. I wasn’t okay that night. I wasn’t okay the next day. I wasn’t okay the day after that.

But I was okay in the end. My brain has been consistently clear for a month. I haven’t even entertained the thought of wanting to be dead. Things are tough, but there's no darkness and fog. I'm SO thankful for that. 

But the thing is that after the call ended, it immediately crossed my mind that had I been suicidal, had I been ready to take my life, I would have hung up and gone through with it.

Were they tired? I don’t know. Were they burnt out? I don’t know.

But they shouldn’t have been on the phone that night. Never has someone sounded like they cared less. I wasn’t even sure they heard me. I’d felt stupid and like a bother.

I hate complaining. It didn’t occur to me that I should complain about what happened that night because I've received more help from the system than I feel like I deserve. I felt bad for calling. But when I mentioned it to a few people, they told me that I probably should tell someone because it might happen to others.

That scared me. A lot. What if it had been someone else? What if someone had called that night with a gun to their head? Would they have felt just as much of a bother and gone through with it?

So I emailed Eastern Health. I got one response asking me for a name. It was okay if I didn’t have it, they said; they would still follow up. I’d given dates, times, and anything I could remember about the voice on the other end of the line.

Silence.

So I sent a follow up email.

Nothing.

I sent another follow up email. This time I said I was worried about needing to talk publicly about it.

Nothing.

So I’m writing this. Not because I think the person on the other end of the line was a terrible person. My inclination is to think that they were tired and burnt out. Not even because I'm mad at Eastern Health. I know how busy things are. Maybe they will get back to me.

But because of what happened that night, I'm scared to give the number out. I can't retweet the number thinking that it'll always be helpful. I’m scared of how they would react to a call like that.

I’m writing this because if it happens to someone else, I don’t want them to give up when they get off the phone

Since I was a teenager, I have struggled with mental health. I wasn’t diagnosed until I was 26 years old. And you know what happened when I got answers? I got better. I credit a lot of that to people who work for Eastern Health. I have a family doctor who fights for what I need. The doctor who diagnosed me is someone I mentally thank each day when I take my medication, because I know what it’s like to enjoy life. It makes me sad that people will focus on this one bad experience when I'm grateful for the help I received before this. I used to want to die all the time. Now those days are very few and far in between.

Even when the depression creeps back in for a short time, I know I will get better. I know how to prepare for the next storm. Bipolar Type 2 is something I will always have, but I live a wonderful and stable life now. I’m so thankful for the answers and help given to me by the mental health system.

But the crisis line scared me that night.

So if you have a call like that, please don’t give up. Answers, help, and hope will always be there eventually. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but they will. After years of not understanding and not knowing what was wrong with me, I was given a second chance on life.

I want you to have that. Asking for help is so scary—and if you call asking for help, please don’t stop trying if the call goes like mine did. I can’t lie to you and say it’s easy to get better. It’s not. It’s hard work that comes with battles that might never go away. But it’s worth it.

I don’t know who you are. I can’t tell you I love you, because I’m not sure if I do—but I want you to know that your life is so valuable. You bring something to this world that no one else can. Your pain? It’s valid. It’s okay to not be okay.

BUT: I want you to be okay.

And if you have a phone call like I did, please don’t give up on that hope. That person on the other line might not be okay either.

So this isn’t exactly a complaint. It’s a warning. It’s a caution. It’s making you aware that there are other ways to get help in case the first place you reach out to fails you. It's asking you to try again. The next time you call it might be someone who can listen and help.

Please, whatever you do, please don't stop fighting.

Update: 

I finally had a call from someone regarding what happened to me. They promised to send an email to the staff that worked the night I called. I want to say I'm to say that I'm thankful for them responding and the fact they are hoping to alert how damaging a bad call can be.

Things I would have told myself about asking for help

It's been a beautiful October in Newfoundland. The sunrises have consistently put me behind in my morning routine because I linger with my coffee as I watch it peek up in the east (The most easterly point you can go in North America that happens to be my backyard.) But with each sunrise comes more memories. 

Last fall I felt like a dead person walking. I look back on those days and wonder how in the world I survived. When the sun rose I would know it was beautiful, but it barely registered. When the leaves tumbled to the ground, I thought about walking off sidewalks. My brain was foggy and I would hide in bed. Driving was scary and I often wondered if I should call someone to drive me.

At the time, I thought I was doing this really amazing thing by not telling people. I was in desperate need of help, and even though people might not have guessed, I wasn't doing nearly as great as I was telling them. 

It's a touchy subject when talking about people who need help. For me, I think there was a sense of pride about not getting it for myself. I thought it made me stronger. Looking back, I think it took much more strength for me to finally reach out and take it. However, I completely understand why people think they can struggle through it. The fear of being seen differently and as weak is SO scary.

I knew I could no longer do it on my own, but I was so scared to ask for it.  I was terrified about the unknown. Would medication change me? What if I gained 50 pounds? Would I become flat and boring? What if it didn't work and my life was always miserable? I thought about those questions day in and day out. 

I didn't understand just how numb I was until months later, but I know now that it was a true miracle from beginning to end that worse things didn't happen.

A month ago,  I went back to my old writings and read my thoughts from those days. The more I read, the more it clicked that back then the unknown was more than I could handle. While yes, I was a dead person walking, I had managed to create a routine where most people didn't notice and I felt safe in that.

When I started to accept that I needed help, I researched everywhere. I wanted to know what I was in for. I needed the truth. And yes, I found blogs I related to and made me feel less alone, but in those initial days when I didn't know what was wrong with me, I had no idea what to expect. I decided to write this down in case someone wants to know what it was like. 

If you're considering talking to someone-- this is my experience. Yours might be much different, but this is my truth. 

It will never be as bad as it was when you didn't know what was wrong with you

Dr. Reese told me that right after she diagnosed me. "You will never be this low again," she said. "Before this moment you had no idea what was going on with you, and from now on you won't be in the dark. You will have hope." 

She was right. I used to be so scared of myself. I constantly worried about my brain and what I would say. I was a pent up mess who always was on the brink of breaking down into a bundle of screams. I felt hopeless and like death would be welcome, because I didn't want whatever was happening my head to be the reality. Now, when I go back to that place of hopelessness, I know that it will end. When I'm laying in bed unable to move, I try to tell myself to just wait it out because in a few days I will be able to see beyond the fog. I hold onto that even in the darkest moments.

It will be a fight that you have with yourself every single day of your life.

This is one of the most frustrating things I have to accept now.  Recently, I had a really good day. I didn't feel worried about a high or low. I felt normal. It's a really wonderful feeling to know what that looks like now, and it makes me want to tell the entire world when it happens. 

I drove the road I avoided for an entire year, and stood at the lookout that I used to dream about driving off. I took in the smell of the ocean, the crashing waves, and the bend in the road that used to be my biggest fear. I wanted to shout with joy. 

But as I got in the car and drove away, I knew that it meant work. Stable is something I can't take for granted. So the following day, I hauled out my running shoes and headed to Quidi Vidi where my feet pounded the gravel.

It doesn't matter how I'm doing-- it's a constant battle of monitoring where I am and how I should handle it. It's exhausting and it's a lot of work--but it's ultimately worth it.

You will notice the comments people make about mental health, but try not to become angry with them

The word bipolar is rarely, if ever, used in a good light. After I was diagnosed with Type 2, I noticed it everywhere. People casually calling people who were moody "bipolar" suddenly hit me all the time. When someone with mental health problems was called crazy, I wondered if I was called that behind my back too. When people say that something will "send them to the Waterford," I always cringe on the inside. However, I've come to accept that it's almost never said with the intention to be mean. For years those words were common and you can't suddenly change people's vocabulary. While I hope that one day it changes, I've chose not get angry about it because I know it's not meant to hurt me.

Learn the signs of going into a high or low

Over and over the professionals would tell me to keep a journal. I've done a bunch of different methods of tracking my behaviour, and it's been helpful. One thing that I've noticed about going into depression is that I get very very paranoid. I never used to realize that it was a sign of spiraling, so for days on end I would be convinced that coworkers, friends, and family hated me. I would always worry about annoying them. So now, when that starts happening, I make sure to argue with my brain. I remind myself that while I may be annoying sometimes, they probably aren't all sitting there wishing I'd never been hired or even born.

And as for a high, I have a tendency to be funnier, wittier, and more enjoyable to be around. I subdue myself a little bit because especially when meeting new friends, I know they will meet a slightly quieter person later on. I used to go out with friends and be the life of the party. I'd joke, laugh, and suggest fun things to do. So when I would go quiet a little later on, they would constantly ask me what was wrong. Half the time, I didn't know how to answer that. Now I have an answer, but it still happens.

You will forgive a lot of people and find healing

This one is huge. For about 10 years I have struggled with anger and blame. I've gone over most of my relationships and realized that people probably didn't abandon me-- I pushed them away. The people on my school bus didn't know I would have nightmares and cry about how they treated me. While they may not have been nice, they had no idea it would affect my brain as much as it did. I didn't realize that they probably thought it was just a joke.

My relationships were a combination of fault. They couldn't have know just how much their words would mess me up. When people made comments about me sitting in the van at social functions, they had no idea it was how I coped with the overwhelming feeling that I was drowning and on the verge of panic.

All the hurt probably wasn't intentional. While mistakes were made on both sides-- neither knew that they were affecting me so much, and I didn't know why it bothered me for years and years.

I have forgiven and moved on from so much more than I thought possible. It's one of those things I will forever be the most grateful for.

Be sure that you want to tell people about it, and wait even longer after that

I wrote the blog post about my diagnosis too soon. I thought I was ready, but I wasn't ready to talk about it with people one on one. I'm so, so, thankful for the people who reached out, but writing about it was different than talking about it. I was overwhelmed and unsure of what to say to people who wanted to help. I also wished some people who found out didn't know. I'm still working on that. There are times I want to discuss it and bring awareness to what Type 2 is, because I wish I'd known, but sometimes there is a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach about people knowing, too. The fear of rejection and judgment eats me up. 

It'd be amazing if I didn't worry so much about what people thought, but I do. Worrying about how it will affect my job, relationships, and acceptance as a person is probably always going to be there. 

The medication will have side effects, but it will be a thousand times worth it

I have pretty bad headaches, awful nightmares, and often wake up drenched in sweat. However, I know that the alternative is always wanting to die, dizziness for weeks on end, and constant fear of facing daily life. 

My medication has worked miracles. I used to look at the bottle each morning and curse it. Now I swallow it with a thankfulness I never dreamed would happen.

Medication won't cure you

I think a lot of people expected this, and I thought maybe that would happen. The truth is that it takes a lot more work than waking up and swallowing a pill each morning. It takes mental energy, acceptance, and often exercise. It's a combination of different kinds of work that I need to be willing to do every single day of my life. My heart breaks for people who are caught in the vicious cycle of wanting to change, but battling getting out of bed.

Your life will suddenly make sense

For fifteen years I couldn't figure out why I was different from everybody else. People would reassure me that I was normal, but my brain said otherwise. I didn't understand why I felt so deeply, why I would get so excitable, or why things would depress me for weeks and months on end. I'd keep trying to fit, and I always failed. 

I'd look back on events in my life and wrack my brain for answers. But when I was told I had Type 2, I went back over my life and it made almost every single one of those difficult periods make sense. It explained my grad year where my marks skyrocketed while working 30 hour weeks. It explained the deep depression that hit me when I was 20 that lasted for months. It explained the insane number of tasks at work I could do one month, and then struggle to match the next.

It explained why I moved to Newfoundland. It explained why I couldn't let go. And it explained why people never understood.

It was like a light was turned on that explained a lifetime of darkness.

Some people can't handle talking about it, but it doesn't make them bad friends or family

This one was a hard one to accept, but now I understand. Talking about mental health is draining for some people and hard to comprehend. I had a few people tell me that they couldn't handle discussing it with me. At first it hurt, but the more I think about it, the more I understand them. Someone on Twitter once said something that made a lot of sense--If someone is fighting their own battle, it can be hard to talk about someone else's. We never know what someone is battling.

Don't ever let it be an excuse, and take full responsibility for your actions even if you're in a high or low

I know this is something I've repeated several times, but it's what I have to keep reminding myself. When I was first diagnosed there was someone in my town who was on trial for some pretty horrible things, and they got off because of their diagnosis of Bipolar. I was in the Costco parking lot when I found out. I got in the car and cried. I hated the thought of going back to my home and people thinking I was capable of the same things.

I've made a lot of really terrible choices in my highs and lows. I have a tendency to push people away. While I might be sick in those times, I still shouldn't do it. I used to spend a lot of money, but I don't think it's an excuse because I still knew that it would put me in debt. 

I know bipolar can make people do things they would never normally do, but with me it can't be an excuse. I don't lose touch with reality with Type 2, and because of that I still know right from wrong. I want to be held accountable. I've been tempted, very tempted, to use it as an excuse sometimes, and I probably have-- but it's something I feel pretty strongly about.

You will lose some of your creativity

This has been brutal. I find it very difficult to write things that are truly good or unique anymore. I believe it's because I'm more stable. I still crave getting words out and taking beautiful pictures, but it's harder for me to express my thoughts. It doesn't flow out as easily. One of my friends used to tell me that when I had an idea I had to get it out ASAP because it would leave. She was right, and I think it was because of my moods. It's hard knowing that some of my work that people loved might never come back.

I know this isn't true for everyone. Many people have written about how it's actually helped, but it's not true for me.

Hopefully one day I will be more okay with this.

Everyone will try and tell you about what they think you should do to cure yourself

I can't begin to tell you the number of suggestions that I've been given-- Certain foods, vitamins, meditation, praying, reading or simply "being positive." At first it drove me crazy. But I came to think of it as people trying to say they cared, even if it was sometimes offensive.

Learn the little things that help

A coffee in the morning, thinking of things I like about my day, a good glass of wine, running around the lake, taking pictures, and having an amazing conversation. Snuggling with the kitty, a walk to the point, and going to the waterShed. There's a million more things, but learning what will bring even the smallest change does wonders when you're scrambling to fight the fog that can rush in.

So many of the people in my life are patient and amazing

I could go on forever, but for those who have stuck by me through every single up and down, I can't even believe it. I love them and I 100% do not deserve them. It blows my mind that they have put up with me.

I continue to associate sunrises with hope. I started noticing them right around the time I was in the middle of hospital and doctor's visits, and as the time ticks by and the days and weeks slip into November, I am increasingly thankful.

Would I have started the medication had I known back then? I like to think so. 

My doctor told me something that's always stuck with me. "If it works for someone, then I'm not going to say it doesn't work." I would never tell someone that they have to start medication. I can tell them it changed my life, but that's only for me.

But I can tell them that reaching out and asking for help is a GOOD and STRONG thing to do. It doesn't mean you are weak. It means you want to be a better person. You might be fooling the entire world, but having a clear brain and ACTUALLY being better is like getting a second chance on life.

I started 26 at rock bottom. I thought it would be my worst year and that I might not survive it. What actually happened is that I started fighting back. I forgave more people than I can count. I found out what normal is. I faced countless fears. I cried. I crashed. I struggled with acceptance. I was thankful for this life that's been given to me.

A year later, I started 27 HAPPY to be on this earth. Not happy for one day. But happy that I'm 27 and have a future. Can you even believe that?! Because I hardly can. But it's real. It's my life.

In January I wrote that I wanted to know what it was like to be better. Now I know.

I am one of the most fortunate people alive. 

Forever

It happened downtown.

I was out late, which is odd for me, but I'd met up with a friend and we'd walked around while eating ice cream and catching up. It'd been a warm night, so I’d been in no rush to get home because warm nights in Newfoundland will be a rare thing soon. But because I worked in the morning, I knew I had to head back to The Shoe sometime. I turned on the car, turned up my music and started on my way back.

I was sitting at a red light when I saw the person. They were crossing the street, and looking away from me. I remember asking myself whether I should shout out or not, because they barely knew me. However, for some strange reason, I decided to. I rolled down the window and shouted across the street: "Hey!"

They looked back at me with a confused look on their face, so I tried again. "It's Kristi! I met you once? I know your friend?"

Their face lit up with recognition as they turned around and walked toward me. "Hi," they said to me, way less enthusiastically. "Could you actually give me a lift home?"

The question took me off guard, but I agreed, and when the light turned green I pulled over to the curb as they climbed in the door. It was dark, so they couldn't see the confusion on my face as to why they would want me to drive them home.

As we headed towards where they needed to go, they started to talk. I quickly realized what was happening, so I stayed as quiet as possible and just tried to listen.

They were in pain. That much was obvious to me. They kept telling me that I might have "actually saved their life." I didn't know how to respond to that except to say only that I was sorry that life hurt. As we drove the dark roads, they poured their heart out to me. Their living situation was not good, drugs were a problem, and worse than anything, their heart was hurting. I had no doubt in my mind that the person next to me might have done something to harm themselves had I not been driving by. My heart broke as I listened to the frustration and tears as they told me their story. I'd heard bits and pieces about their situation from my friend, but not the details. The passenger in my car just needed to talk because they were sick, and the pain couldn't be contained. My heart broke for them.

I was silent as I listened, only opening my mouth often enough to let them know I was listening. But I was also reeling. My thoughts were racing as they poured out their heart to me. I felt numb.

Why?

They sounded like me. Sitting next to me in my car was someone who echoed the hopelessness that so often crowds my brain. Sitting next to me was someone who allowed the tears to fall as their voice cracked and they tried to explain what was going on. My car smelled like weed, and I forced myself not to roll the window down, but all of that faded as it hit me like a punch in the gut.

We were the same.

I was next to someone who lived a completely different life than me. I was no better than them, and I know they worked hard and honestly--but I also knew that if two people met us on the street, they would judge us differently. Because I hide. All the time.

Months ago I wrote posts about being diagnosed with Bipolar II. When I go back and read those posts, I feel sick with embarrassment. When I met someone I liked, and when I posted a roommate ad online, I took down that blog. I was worried they would judge my story. I read those words about wanting to die, about the darkness, and needing medication, and I was terrified of people being scared of me and not wanting to be around me.

I filtered my readers so work colleagues wouldn't read the blog and find out. I worried about losing out on a promotion, and even worse-- that they would start to look at my every move and say I couldn't handle things because of what I have. I could never explain that in all the areas of my life, work has probably benefited the most from my highs. I am beyond productive when my brain kicks in with energy, and when the depression sinks in, I do everything in my power to stay just as productive so I don't let my employer down.

You see, I've never wanted to use Bipolar II as an excuse. I swore when I found out that I would not let it define me. I would never say that it WAS me. So I worked at hiding it even more than before I was diagnosed. I ran, I took the medication, I wrote, and I spoke to my therapist. I did everything in my power to fight it.  When I thought a high had arrived, I did everything to settle it down.

And for the most part, I was successful. When I went to the Waterford and spoke with the lady who had diagnosed me, for the final time before she left for a different position, she seemed pleased, if not proud. I took a bitter sense of pride in that. My work was paying off.

But when the last crash hit, I was discouraged. I'd known it was coming. I kept trying to prepare for it. I knew because of the high I'd been experiencing that one was likely to happen. I remember calling my friend and asking her how I would deal with it. She had no answer.

Not only was I discouraged, I was angry. Why? Why could I know this was coming, and why could I prepare, but yet it would still hit? I'd been working for months. I was fighting back, but yet the lows still threatened me at each turn. I couldn't understand how I could work so hard and it still always came back.

I finally emailed the psychologist at my wit's end, and he agreed to meet with me. It'd been months since I'd gone. I hadn't needed him. I'd been stable. I'd been normal. But now it was happening again.

His office smelled the same and it looked the same. He asked me why I was there.

I told him why. I half laughed as I explained to him that not only was I there because it was happening again, but I knew why it was happening. "I've figured it all out!" I said. 

Then my voice changed to the dead calmness I often speak in when I want to give up. "It feels like a literal fight every single day," I told him. "It's like I know what I have to do, and I prepare for battle every single day even though there's a chance I will lose."

It was pointless to be there, I felt. There was nothing I wasn't aware of, and really, I was just spending $100 for nothing. (He's used to my comments like this by now.) I half expected him to laugh. He often does because I make jokes and fill the conversation with sarcasm. But he didn't.

Rather, he said he was impressed with me. Impressed with my techniques such as going over my life and picking out the highs, lows, normal reactions, and everything in between. It was amazing, he said, that I decided this was the year of facing my fears: taking medication, getting help, watching whales, buying a house on my own, trying to date when I was terrified of the rejection, letting go of the relationship that's haunted me for years, and the planned skydiving.

"You're doing everything you can do," he said. "It's very rare to see someone approach this in such a healthy and proactive manner. You are self aware, and there's very little more you could be doing to be better."

But then he paused. "Except I think you need to accept something."

My eyes darted up from my lap, as he continued.

"This is your life. No matter what you do, no matter how healthy you are about all of it-- the reality is that this is going to be a part of your life. The last step might be to accept that Bipolar II is something you can fight, but it will never completely go away. The next time this happens might be another seven years from now, but the reality is that there is always the possibility of you having to deal with it.."

He might as well have punched me in the face.

I've known since I've been diagnosed that it's chronic. I’ve known it in my head anyway. But sitting there, trying to smile, I knew in my heart that he was right. Without even realizing it, it turns out that I've been so busy trying to not let it define me, that I've forgotten that it's going to last a lifetime. The highs and lows will be something I always have to track. I can take all the right pills, be as active as possible, go to talk therapy, and fight with my brain all day long--but at the end of the day, I need to accept that while it will never define me, it's a part of me.

Bipolar II. I hate repeating those words. Sometimes I feel as though I'd rather die than admit to the next person I fall in love with that I have something.  I'd rather die than tell my employer and have him question everything about my ability as a worker.

It's a part of me even though it is not me. Ever since the car ride with that person, I keep wondering if I should be more open.  Being open terrifies me.  For months I've been determined to beat Bipolar II. I'm in denial that it's here to stay.

It's not something I can beat. I will have to live with it.

If you took the two of us in the car that night, I would bet on almost no one believing that we could be in a similar headspace. That has to change. When people who seem to have it all together come forward and say admit they are sick, they are worried about not being taken seriously because of it. When those other people who are publicly falling apart say they are sick, people often dismiss them and blame other things. But we're the same.

If I'm being very honest, I've wanted to feel that I am better than that. While I've been grateful for understanding my life, I've still fought the label of Bipolar II at every turn.

I found a lump in my breast not long ago. I freaked out, went to the doctor, and within two weeks I was at St. Clare’s getting an ultrasound. It was nothing, but it got me thinking: had I been told that I had cancer, I most likely would have started treatment right away. Had I been diagnosed with cancer instead of Bipolar II, I am not exaggerating when I say that I feel my life would have been at less immediate risk with that than it used to be with my mental health.

I despise admitting that's how it is, because I fear the judgment. I don’t know how people do it. I have a doctor who cares and a pretty good support system. Yet, I know that many, many, people don’t.

This is my life. So much of it is amazing. I have the house of my dreams, a great job, a beautiful island to explore, and people who support me through thick and thin. But a part of my life is dealing with Bipolar II. The darkness, the highs, the productivity, and the fog. Accepting that they will come back is hard.

I can tell you today that I accept it, but I know that after weeks of being stable I won't want to discuss it. I will want to pretend that I'm normal like everyone else. I might delete this post and go back to not talking about it to anyone.

I have a lot of work to do and a lot of stupid pride to deal with. 

That's just about as much as I can accept for now.

Reality

It's been six months since I started medication.

In those first few weeks I googled everything I could find, trying to figure what side effects to expect, and a timeline of when I would feel relief. After a while I became discouraged, and instead began to track my progress in a journal. After a few weeks of that, I gave up because going back and reading the entries made me want to stop taking medication altogether. People were being so nice and so supportive. I didn't want to let anyone down by saying I was still barely hanging on.

But then I started to notice little things. The screaming would leave for a day or two. I wouldn't panic as much about things. There were hours without thinking about dying. I was finding it easier to get out of bed. They were all tiny, but they were steps. And with each step I felt a little bit more hope that maybe help was not far off.

There began to be okay days. Days where things weren't quite so dark, and I wouldn't cry quite so much. Still, there was no moment where I thought: "I'm okay now!" I suppose it's silly, because they say this is something that will follow me around for the rest of my life, but I cling to the hope of feeling stable. Of people thinking I'm stable. 

Then there were seven amazing days. And by amazing, I mean normal. I was turning right on Water Street when I realized it. The exact moment it sunk in was just before the Orange Gas Station as Ed Sheeran played on radio. I was so excited I wanted to shout. 

And really? It was just a normal thought that made me so happy. I had caught myself asking if I wanted to die, but then immediately my brain had replied: "Why in the world would I want to die? I want to live."

I wanted to LIVE! I couldn't remember the last time I'd thought those words. I couldn't remember when my brain had felt so much hope that life was the best and most exciting option. I was grinning from ear to ear, and I tried to call home and tell someone. I WANTED TO LIVE! 

I took this about 10 minutes after realizing I didn't want to die.

For seven days I felt that way. Not the overflow of excitement-- but the luxury of normal. I was a normal amount of tired in the morning. I was reacting normally to bad events. I was normally talking. People hate to be called normal. It's all I want to be.

"You will know." The doctor has told me. "You will know when you're feeling yourself." I wasn't feeling myself. But I did know one thing, it was the closest I've ever been to normal.

But then it came back. It was very slight at first. I recognized the first signs. I wanted to ignore them so much, but it wasn't going away. I walked around that week trying to brush it aside. I felt like something was chasing me. I was trying to run but couldn't, and the darkness was taking it's time. Lurking.

And on Saturday night, it hit me. 

 I huddled up in a fetal position sideways on my bed. I was staring blankly ahead. The thought drifted across my mind that I should ask for help, but I'd told people I was improving, and my paranoid mind doubted they would believe or want to hear about the nightmare I was engulfed in. 

Have you ever been in a very small space where you can feel the weight of the walls and there is little room to move? It was like that. Knowing that I could move, but panicking because it was so confined. I could have sworn something was holding me down. The screams were going off in my head, echoing from the sides of my brain, even though I knew they weren’t real.

I don’t know how long I laid there. I think it may have been hours. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get up in the morning. After a while I fell asleep, dreading the next day.

Around 6:15 AM I woke up yet again. I could see the moon outside the window, but the sky was just starting to brighten. I slipped out from under the covers and went over to the window seat. The horizon was a faded pink and I knew it would be a brilliant sunrise.

One of the many sunrises I enjoyed earlier this year.

Sunrises are my favourite. The beginning of the year was spent watching many of them because I found renewed hope as I watch the sun greet a new day. But lately, I wasn’t watching them. I knew that morning was an opportunity to see hope once again. I stood there for a few seconds, wondering if I had the strength to stay and watch the sun peak up from behind the horizon. I didn’t. I turned around and buried myself under the covers as my kitty nudged my head-- hoping I was up for the day. 

Two hours later I woke up to a brilliant sunny day. The water was my favourite colour blue, and so calm. It reminded me of the lake where I spent my childhood summers. I pushed away that thought, because now that place is filled with painful memories.  In my head, I knew the day was beautiful. I knew it was sunny, but I felt like I was looking at it through darkness. Like a dream where you see everything, but you can’t touch any of it.  I went out on the deck, hoping it would help. It didn’t. Feeling defeated I turned around, went back inside, and sat on the stairs.

I stared out the window, wishing I could see what I knew was there. It was then the idea came to me. I pulled out my phone and took a picture. I knew the lens would see it. I could look at it later. The screams followed me all morning, and I cursed my brain, all the while trying to remind myself that I would have break from the darkness if recent history stayed on my side.

I got through the day, I even went out on the trail that led to the treehouse and helped move branches that had fallen in the windstorm. I enjoyed a delicious supper with the best neighbours on the planet. My soul felt increasingly less dark. I was thankful for the warm and wonderful people of Shore Lane.

That evening I walked home wondering what the next day would bring. It’s been a game since those seven days of what felt normal. At least, what I think is normal. Some days are like Saturday. Then there are days when I’m in complete denial and want to stop medication as soon as possible.

On Monday I woke up to snow on the ground, grey skies, and deep fog. But yet, my brain was clearer. I got through the day. The weight was there, but it was getting better and I was grateful for it.

It was then I remembered. The picture. I hauled out my phone and scrolled through trying to find it. It was still there, and I could finally see it. Sunday morning had been gorgeous.

The day might have been miserable for me, and I wished the weather was like the day before, but I clung to the hope that next time I would be able to really see it.

In fact, I more than hoped. I knew I would.

Good days will come back. Half good days are in and out. If I'm lucky, good weeks and months will be a part of my life.

In those mornings where I stare at the purple container that holds the pills I hate so much, I remind myself of good days. It used to be that I wondered what those were. And now I know.

I think it's important to be honest about how brutal side effects can be and how long it can take for medication to kick in. I wouldn't wish those first few months on anyone I know. I still deal with them, but it's not as bad now. I will probably have to take more, and I still dread it just as much.

I don't think it's the only answer and I understand why people resist. I know why it's so scary. But I also have come to accept that as much as I hate medication, it's helping me.

And for that I am thankful.

Suddenly not alone

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:

Bipolar Type 2.

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.
 

Last year around this time, I started reflecting on what Newfoundland had taught me in my first year living here. As January 1st approaches, I find myself asking what has changed in my second year. It's natural, I suppose, to wonder about such things. Pretty soon, my Facebook feed will be filled with people who are talking about how 2016 treated them.

If you had told me that I would last two years on this rugged island, I probably would have been skeptical. Those first few months here almost broke me. The wind and fog drove me crazy that first summer. I was so homesick I didn't think I would ever get over it. But there's one thing that has become very clear to me-- I've fallen completely and totally in love with Newfoundland. It feels like a betrayal to say that because I will always be proud I'm from Pictou County. Just this morning I was thinking about how much I miss it. However, Newfoundland has made me grow, it's made me fight, and it's given me a backbone.

This morning I woke up and stared out at the icy ocean. Even though I was in a warm house, I could feel the cold air just from looking out the window. The night before, I'd stood in the dark with a friend and stared as the waves thundered against the rocks. I didn't explain it to my friend, but I was overcome with emotion. This land has made me strong.

And it's funny that I say that. Because right now I am anything but strong. In fact, it's probably the weakest and most fragile I've ever been. 

But this land, it's taken care of me.

It's where I ran when I lost Jean. My beautiful, sharp witted, brilliant, and sometimes angry friend. I stood on the flat rock just past her house and thought I would die from missing her so much. But in those moments, the ocean would calm me.

It's where I ran when I didn't know how to cope with the crippling fogginess that often happens to my brain. My feet would pound the ground as I ran around Quidi Vidi Lake, and I would be so grateful for the saltwater air that filled my lungs as I ran.

It's where I turned when I needed to feel like I had to get out of the city. I'd walk down the East Coast trail and wonder how so much beauty could fill one place.

It's where I ran when I didn't want to leave the house. I'd dart up the stairs and stare out the kitchen window at the harbour that was a temporary home for cruise ships, and the heartbreaking place where people learned they lost their friends at sea. 

And I love it. It's wild, free, and contains a secret sort of beauty I think some people don't take the time to appreciate.

If I were to be honest, the people aren't as friendly here--but it's made me tougher. I've learned to keep my guard up and let it bounce off when I'm hurt. But at the same time, they've made me realize the importance of hospitality and how to be willing to help anyone out. I've had complete strangers offer to help me because of something they've seen on social media. I'm currently living in a neighborhood that has completely taken me under their wing. For the first time in my life, I feel like I belong somewhere.

2016 has been a complete idiot. Too many were greeted by Death, Donald Trump won the election, and so many personal battles have happened, I tend to block them out.

When 2017 comes knocking, I'll be ready. I'm half expecting to shout "Good Riddance!" and slam the door on such a gut wrenching year.

But somehow I survived it.

And Newfoundland? I give a lot of the credit to you.