As I was thinking about more topics to include in my new blog, I noticed that this week happens to be National Mental Illness Awareness week. To me, the timing seems a bit serendipitous, as one of the main reasons I write is to cope with my own mental illness. I thought that today I would write about my own struggles with mental illness, namely clinical depression and bipolar mania.

I feel a lot of trepidation and anxiety even trying to think about describing my experience with mental illness. Mental health is an extremely misunderstood yet prevalent problem in society, and one that carries with it a lot of stigma. In the United States alone, one in five people will deal with mental health problems per year. Yet our culture continues to gloss over its true impact on society, preferring instead to hide behind judgement or indifference. After all, the mind can be a scary place, and most people don’t want to be exposed to some of the more difficult or challenging thoughts in life. I will say, however, that acceptance, understanding, and treatment of mental illness has come a long way. But we still have a long way to go.

I used to think that I was a happy person. I had always been considered “smart”, even from a young age. I took that label and carried it with me through school, using it as a shield to hide me from my own insecurities and challenges growing up. I was able to make it all the way through high school, usually at the top of my class, and into a good college, without as much effort or determination as I observed in my peers around me. I took pride in the fact that I was double-majoring in two difficult subjects, with hopes of medical school and a career as a doctor in the future. Or maybe grad school. Or maybe my own startup. I didn’t know. For years I looked to my plans for the future as a way to avoid my nagging qualms about the present. And by nagging qualms, I mean deep-seated insecurities and questions at the core of my being, questions and insecurities that had nothing to do with the rigors of academia or the vanities of my own personal achievements, but rather the inherent futility and insignificance of my own life. My own life. It wasn’t something I had really thought of. I suppose in my youth I had quashed these worries with the distractions of school and society, pushing myself to conquer the tangible goals laid out in front of me in order to strengthen my own self worth. As such, I had become a person obsessed with facts and order; a person only looking outwards for a way to challenge myself, instead of a person looking inwards for a way to accept myself. Any viewpoints outside of my framework were wrong and easily dispatched with an almost calculating satisfaction. I took pride in what I perceived to be others’ weakness of mind or discipline, only because I was too scared to examine my own obvious shortcomings. This arrogance of youth perpetuated a crucial dearth of emotional depth and empathy. I was a child in an adult world, oblivious to my lack of awareness, narcissistically complacent in my own preening intelligence. My mind was an intricate house of cards, waiting to collapse.

It is amazing the lengths that we will go to in order to convince ourselves that we are happy. Earlier in college, it was becoming a bit clear to me that I was in over my head, and that something would have to give. Rather than accept defeat, I decided to try harder, focus more on academia, push myself to learn more and more, eschewing the traditional allowances of normal life for a more rigorous yet potentially greater one. Life was like a juggling act, trying to continuously balance school, family, and friends. Relationships, if they could be called that, were brief and messy, more of an aloof transaction of human contact then a slow and luxurious development of connection between human beings. I was so emotionally stunted that becoming vulnerable to other people was out of the question; In my mind, other people’s admiration was enough to quell my own insecurities. I didn’t need anything more to validate my worth. I had convinced myself that I was happy, on the path to establishing a legacy for myself, of achieving the glory and recognition for my supposed intellect of which I was so proud. In short, I was an incomplete person, too scared to trust in the world around me, too unwilling to allow myself to float freely in the current of humanity. I was missing love.

Unbeknownst to me, I had a secret darkness lurking in my lonely mind. Mental illness usually happens in the early twenties, with 75% of cases occurring before the age of 24. The mind is in a vulnerable state at this age, as it copes with the increasing pressures of society, of college, of careers, relationships, and the long-term issues that begin to become more germane. As a child, the future is a distant speck in the horizon of a sunny day; in adulthood, it becomes a looming specter, a grim reality ready to strike at any moment. In my case, reality finally reared its ugly head in the form of severe bipolar disorder, both mania and depression. I remember the exact day my entire mind imploded.

Trying to describe a life-changing moment is very difficult. How do you put into words the moment when your entire world collapses? It’s hard to tread the fine line between fact and exaggeration, drama and reality, when your mind blurs such intense emotions with tragic experiences. Sensationalizing such an event will detract from and debase its sacred memory but understatement of the same event can lead to a devaluation or loss of due significance. Anyways, I’ll do my best.

Sitting on the couch on another Friday night with my closest friends, I was looking forward to the weekend, blissfully unaware of the painful path in life on which I was about to embark. My phone rang. I looked at it briefly, saw that my mother was calling, and put it on silent for the time being. A few minutes later, I looked back at my phone. Numerous missed calls from my mother and my sister, as well as many texts. I opened my phone and immediately came hurtling back to reality. My dad had crashed his plane and was missing, with the more fatal presumption being left unsaid for now.

Reality is a cage. No matter how much we rage and lash out, or how much we try to avoid the solemn truths around us, we can’t escape the truly awful parts of life. In happiness, the cage is big, so big, that we forget about it. We are content to wander within ourselves where we are, free to roam seemingly endless fields of joy as we meander through life. It’s painful, therefore, when those big metal bars of misery come crashing down, reminding us that nothing is ours to keep. Not the past, nor the present, nor the future. Life is but a fleeting candle of light, flickering in the infinite darkness. And unfortunately, my dad’s flame had been cruelly extinguished.

I can’t really describe the panic I felt in that moment. It was wild and savage, an almost primal fear overtook me as my heart constricted and adrenaline surged through my body. Suffice to say the experience of that moment left several emotional scars in my mind. I won’t go through the events of the next few days and weeks in detail. I wouldn’t be able to convey the depth of my emotions within the context of this piece, and I would prefer to save my thoughts for another post, when I can take the time to find the words to do justice to the love I have for my dad.

That was the most significant event in my life. And it led to several of the other significant events in my life, that led me to where I am today. It’s crazy how your life can change so drastically, in minutes, in seconds, in non-discrete intervals of time where every moment seems to linger for an eternity. Even now, it’s hard to delve precisely into the depths of my insanity and anguish, mainly because, although I’m in a better place, those issues are still ongoing in my mind. After my father’s death, life ceased to have meaning. At first I was convinced I had the strength to carry on, to accept this cross in the road and venture forth with impunity, hacking my way through the jungles of sorrow with my own self-honed blade of mental acuity and determination. Pride comes before the fall. I refused to accept my burgeoning depression as darkness swirled around me, swathing my mind in a billowy cloud of grief. I grew listless and aloof, not going to classes or doing homework. I hid out in my room, sometimes denying myself food, trying to escape into the dreamless haze of sleep. Reality was truly too much to bear. I began to dread waking up. I cursed everything, angrily rattling the bars of the prison of my own despair. All I wanted to do was escape the suffering and drift comfortably into nothingness. That is a fallacy of the depressed mind: the notion that nothingness can bring relief. What we want in life is escape from the pain, but sometimes oblivion is the next best thing.

Have you ever been in love? Sometimes I wonder if I have. I feel that maybe I have, once or twice. Maybe once really. It’s hard to tell. Love is such a big force. It affects us all in different ways. The deep abiding love of family that is given to you from birth, for example, is different from the overwhelming, intrusive love that you have fought to earn from another. Some types of love are sparkling and pretty, neatly wrapped up with a perfect bow, presented for your enjoyment for some time, ready to be cast away at a moment’s notice; shiny toys waiting to be replaced. Other types of love can be deadly, vast and consuming, a rare typhoon of the heart and mind, ready to devour everything that you are willing to give in the fragile, hopeful pursuit of happiness.

Depression is like that too. Some sadness can be sharp and painful, but merciful in its quick duration as it washes over you; a stabbing pain that leaves you wounded, but intact. Other types of depression, the most deadly kinds, slowly fill your soul with hopelessness. You are mired in the quicksand of despair. Every day is a waking horror, as countless invisible hands try to drag you down into the abyss. How many days have I spent in that waking nightmare? Too many, that is to be sure. I passed many days truly believing that I would never be happy again. I envisioned nothing for myself. I’ve heard depression described as an inability to construct a future for yourself. This description is spot on. I could see nothing ahead but misery and sorrow. There was no viable path to happiness, just unending pain until death. So why not hasten the inevitable end?

Suicide is often deconstructed as a “permanent solution to a temporary problem.” In today’s society, it is also a very taboo subject. It is natural to entertain the subject of one’s own death, sometimes at one’s own hand. After all, what else is life but a preparation for death? At least, that is one argument. Not my own. It is easy to dismiss those who choose suicide as cowards, unable to make their own way in the world and take responsibility for their lives. It is also easy to sympathize for those poor lost souls, unable to find joy or happiness anywhere in life. To me, the concept is too complicated. My depression caused me to seriously attempt suicide on more than one occasion, resulting in prolonged hospital stays and increasing mental instability. I plunged further into the depths of despair and solitude, withdrawing from the world in order to hide myself from the rapid destruction of my own mind. I only wish that I had had the courage to accept help sooner. But bipolar disorder is a double-edged sword. And the low lows I was experiencing were soon to be evened out by the highest of highs.

Insanity is intoxicating. I can’t remember what exactly triggered my descent into madness. Some sort of environmental or genetic factor no doubt. Maybe I thought in my mind that enough time had passed for me to move on from my father’s death, and that I had done so in a healthy way. I hadn’t. I still didn’t know that my deep depression was a symptom of a much greater and more dangerous problem, namely bipolar disorder. My views of the world and of myself were warped and deluded. But the biggest problem of mental illness is the inability of the broken mind to recognize its own convoluted state. How can you accept that something is wrong, when that something feels so good. Bipolar mania is the highest of highs; a succulent taste of freedom from the endless drudgery of reality. Scientifically speaking, the chemistry of my brain was producing a unregulated euphoric state and I was reaping the benefits. I’ll probably go into detail more in another post, but for the sake of brevity I will refrain for now. Regardless, the madness was enjoyable. How can I describe the extent of debauchery or indulgence, as my mind was liberated from what I believed to be the strictures of society? I can’t really.

Uninhibited freedom has its consequences. What goes up must come down. I came crashing down to earth again, another Icarian mortal who flew too close to the sun. But at least I had tasted heaven. Only this time, the taste of dirt and shame, of depression and regret, was much more bitter. The depression was deeper and darker, as I looked around at the desolate landscape that had become my life. After weeks upon weeks in mental institutions, I decided it was time to accept that I needed help. That journey was and continues to be an ongoing odyssey, one best left, again, for another post. Suffice to say it was very difficult. But I’m glad I sought help, before I ended up in a place with no escape.

The fallout was severe, but manageable, in a way. The only thing I can’t reconcile with myself is the irreparable damage I did to a relationship with someone who I cared about more deeply than anyone else in life; a best friend who has long ceased to be a part of my life. Even though I’m in a much better place than I was before, I feel a deepening sorrow as the unyielding passage of time widens the gulf between us. The finality of loss, I suppose, serves to make us truly appreciate what we have.

And what do we have? What do I have? I don’t feel like I have much. A shattered mind, broken friendships, a lack of stability in career or relationships. I sometimes feel as if I’m drifting in an empty ocean, a slave to the whimsical and careless currents of life as I struggle to stay afloat. In my mind I feel broken; An incomplete person with no hopes of finding solace in life. But maybe we become complete by accepting our incompleteness. As we struggle to fill the void in ourselves, our regrets and mistakes serve to strengthen our resolves, filling in the cracks of a mislaid foundation. I think the most important tools we have are hope and love. It feels that everything good in life is predicated upon love; the single force that connects everyone. I find strength in my own hope that living a life filled with kindness and acceptance of myself and others will lead me to a place that is not so dark, but instead awash in glory. As meaningless as life is, we have to live it. So now I choose to live it as deeply as I can, with no expectations or inhibitions, filling every moment with appreciation.

Mental illness is a problem that can’t be taken lightly. Life is too precious to carry on alone in the darkness. Just remember that you have worth, and no burden is too heavy to bear with others. You are worth fighting for, and your only struggle is to fight for your love and acceptance of yourself. Lose yourself in love.