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People often ask me what it feels like to live with bipolar disorder, yet there is no universal explanation I can offer. Though I find many similarities with others who also live with bipolar disorder, each of our experiences is unique. For me, living with bipolar disorder is a constant battle of finding the balance between light and dark. By that I mean there is a darkness inside me that lurks behind the shadows, and when it decides to return it is relentless in its torture.

When I am depressed there is a constant hum of negative self-talk in my ear, and with every swing the darkness takes, a little more madness spills out. For no particular reason at all I carry this loneliness, despair, and pain around. They are oddly familiar emotions, and for whatever reason I find comfort in them. The level of self-loathing and hatred I have for myself during these episodes leaves me emotionally empty, unable to feel anything. I cry a lot, usually for no reason at all; it is difficult to get out of bed; I don’t sleep; and I don’t shower or clean the house. In my darkest days, I have resorted to self-harm to feel something, anything really. I’ve cut my wrists, and now when I look at my left wrist I am reminded of those times. I’ve had suicidal thoughts, which thankfully I have never followed through with. I pulled out my hair for the pricks of pain it caused, which I still do to this day. They were all cries for help.

I spend the majority of my bipolar episodes in this particular state of mind. And like many others who live with bipolar disorder, I have expelled a great deal of energy in hiding the reality of my situation. No one wants to portray images of their sadness, let alone talk about it; it makes people uncomfortable. So you learn how to hide it, and you create an edited version of your life. When I had a mental breakdown, this was a theme I heard from the closest people in my life. They had no clue I spent my nights curled up in a ball on the hardwood floor of my home bawling and gasping for air, because around them I put on the mask of a confident, happy girl. I was an expert at hiding my reality, but I did so at the detriment to myself.

At other times, I feel an unexplained energy pulsing through my body. I’m impulsive and spontaneous and generally chaotic. But my enthusiasm, vitality, and ability to throw caution to the wind are infectious. People love me in this state of mind. I love me in this state of mind. Because I have bipolar II, the severity of my mania is low compared to someone who has bipolar I. And, these moments of elation are short-lived. I eventually return back to a period of normality—sometimes for years at a time—but alas depression always returns. I equate living with bipolar disorder to a pendulum; I swing back and forth between these periods of depression, elation, and normality. It can be exhausting, and sometimes I find myself in a constant state of fear of returning to one of those states of mind.

Many of us are first diagnosed with bipolar disorder during one of these episodes, when we are admitted to a psychiatric ward so that our moods can be stabilized. After my diagnosis, I wrestled with the guilt, shame, and stigma that comes with a mental illness diagnosis. Many of us do, because we fear judgment. We fear being seen as different, and we fear being labeled. We are still individuals, though. Our mental illness does not define us; it is just one piece of who we are.

I’ve learned many lessons in dealing with bipolar disorder, especially in living with depression. For one, I realized I was not alone in my journey when I finally acknowledged that something was wrong and admitted I needed help. It turns out I had a dependable support network, and the fear I had of being judged was not my reality. After my mental breakdown, my friends and family came out of the woodwork to be there for me—whether it was lending an ear to talk, a shoulder to lean on, or help with some of the very basic things I found so overwhelming (cooking and cleaning, for example). My recovery was not simple or quick. It never is. But I do know that support from family and friends is crucial to that process. I firmly believe I would not be where I am today—healthy and happy and living a stable life—without them.

I’ve also realized that everyone’s experience is different. When I first started writing and publishing personal essays about what having bipolar disorder felt like and what it was like to be in a psychiatric ward, I didn’t imagine anyone would ever question the truthfulness of those stories or write negative comments about my experience. People commented on those articles with things like, “I call bullshit,” and “There are many flaws in this story,” and “She is making it up. That would never happen.” I make it a rule not to read any comments on my articles but inevitably someone I know reads them and asks, “Did you see what they wrote!?” My curiosity peaks and I end up reading them.

Those kinds of comments do hurt, and it makes me angry that someone would judge my experience or others’ experiences when they themselves have probably never been in my shoes. To say such a personal story is untrue is dismissive and wrong. Even in the support group I attend with women who have exactly what I have, none of our stories perfectly align. Yet I believe every word of their stories. When people share such intimate details of a painful time in their lives, recognize that it takes courage. Be kind and show compassion for the human condition. And if you are a friend or family member of someone who has bipolar disorder, be mindful about the comments you make, as they can come off as insensitive. The best thing you can do is ask, “What can I do to help you?” and to say, “You’re important to me. I love you. And I’m here for you.”

Most importantly, though, I’ve found there is no magical pill to fix the pain. Though medication is incredibly helpful in stabilizing your mood, it doesn’t make the pain or despair you felt miraculously go away. A lot of times you feel ashamed when you come out of the episode. You ask yourself how you could have possibly thought the things you thought or did the things you did (self-harm, attempted suicides, negative self-talk). Long term healing takes a considerable amount of work, and it takes time as well. You don’t take a pill and everything becomes hunky dory. Therapy is essential in addressing some of those underlying issues. I know that people often say time heals all wounds, but I don’t necessarily believe that’s true. Time just makes enduring pain and separating it from the events that happened in our lives easier. You never believe you’ll survive the pain, but you do survive it. Your life does go on and you continue living it to the best of your ability—day by day.

Which leads me to say that it is equally important for you—and for your friends and family—to acknowledge and respect your current state of health. In my most severe depressive episode, I stopped taking care of myself. I didn’t shower. I didn’t cook. I didn’t clean. The thought of doing any of these things nearly debilitated me, and as a result I stunk, didn’t eat, and slept in dirty sheets for months at a time. It was only at the hospital that I finally became mindful of how much I wasn’t functioning in the everyday world and that I needed help doing all the simple things that seemed so overwhelming to me. I needed someone to help me clean and cook and do the laundry. The only thing I seemed to be able to manage in the initial weeks after my hospital stay was to take a shower. I was too exhausted to do anything else. But even though it was a small task, it was something. Understanding my abilities and my limitations at the present moment is important to my recovery process. I can’t think about where I want to be, or how I ultimately want to function. Instead, I continuously have to ask myself where I’m at today and cut myself some slack. I realize I may need some help getting through rough patches, and I’ve found that there are people in my support network who are willing to help even if in a small but significant way.

However, you eventually have to stand on your own two feet because to truly make it out, you have to try. The support and assistance I received from my family and friends after my breakdown was endless. It still is. It made me realize, if even just for them, I needed to embark on a path to recovery. Despite how much it helps to have them lending a hand and having my therapist, psychiatrist, and support group to talk to, I was never going to make progress until I started wanting to get better for myself. No one could walk my path to recovery except me. It is especially important to realize this, because even though you are living in your own personal hell and you are emotionally exhausted, your state of mind also takes an emotional toll on your friends and family. If you choose to not take an active part in your recovery, you will eventually push them away. They also need to take care of their mental health, so never take them for granted. Even if you don’t want to get better for yourself, at least try for them.

Though recovery doesn’t happen overnight and sometimes you think you won’t make it, there is light at the end of the tunnel. Things do get better. You get better. Hang tight and know you are not alone in your journey.

[Photo credit to Lindsay Wallace]

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