I’m writing this for my son. He’s nine. Super smart. Gifted they say, but I’m not sure this is the time to explain to him that his mom has bipolar disorder.
When I was diagnosed last May at 41 years old I felt a mixture of things. A part of me thought “Well, I really am crazy”, a part of me was absolutely horrified, and the other part was just laughing at the fact that I was seeing a psychiatrist. For the most part though, I was relieved… I had suspected something was wrong with me for a very long time.
Being a teenager was hell. My parents probably wanted to strangle me and burry me out back in a shallow grave most of the time. My 20’s and 30’s seemed to coast right along though. I pursued a creative field of work and as a graphic designer. My highs were encouraged. I would stay up for days, birthing a new idea that would turn into a masterpiece (or so I thought). It would continue on for another week as I finished the work and then finally collapsed in exhaustion… I never had an unhappy client. They paid me good money for my work. I was rewarded for my hypomanic state.
I never seemed to experience a serious depression until my divorce. Insomnia came for a visit. I still struggle with it today. I was awake for about three weeks. There was no mania, no feeling on-top-of-the-world, and no great creations, I just didn’t sleep. When I did finally drift off I was plagued by horrible nightmares, so I finally called my doctor. She prescribed Ambien for sleep and Valuim for anxiety, telling me that other than a death in the family, I was dealing with two of the three most stressful events we can experience, divorce and moving.
Things seemed to straighten out rather quickly with these two medications, so I falsely assumed I suffered from mild anxiety and continued to refill the Valium until my doctor told me no more. I tried that for a while, then decided to order it online and take things into my own hands, just like we all do when undiagnosed. I was once again trying to mange my moods that were forever trying to manage me.
Then something different happened. Something shocking and awful. I was driving down the interstate and I thought, If I just drift over the median, I could be hit by an oncoming semi, and I wondered if I would die instantly. I wondered if it would hurt, or if my brain would just stop thinking, if I would just cease to exist. The thought persisted. I found my reality slipping like a hallucination as I drove at 80mph down the highway. I started to cry, hyperventilate, scream at the top of my lungs. I was in some sort of distorted Alice in Wonderland world of terror.
I had the sense to get off the freeway, but then experienced a lot of confusion. Where do I go? Should I call someone? I should call someone!… This is Bad. This is really, really bad. A part of me knew I should go to the hospital, but then what? Do I just walk into the ER and say, “I think I’m losing my mind?” I sat in a parking lot and tried to wait it out. I knew what town I was in, and that it was daytime, but that was the extent of my grip. I knew I didn’t want to lose my son by being locked up. So I just sat there and didn’t tell anyone about anything.
Ahhh……. psychotic breaks. That was the first of several.