Gee… where do I even start? I remember in 2011 when I got diagnosed as Bipolar, I was hit with a million questions and statements from people of all ages when I got back from treatment. “How does that feel?!”, “NO YOU CAN’T BE!”, “Wait! But you’re not crazy!”, “Can we not talk about this?” to eventually “Are you okay? Let me know if you need anything.” However, even though I wanted to tell people what I was truly going through, I was pulled into a room by two adults saying, “You need to stop telling people about what happened to you. If you tell people you’re Bipolar they’re going to think you’re crazy.” Never in my life had I felt so shamed and shattered. I knew that I was just like anyone else and I knew that I wasn’t crazy. I had just suffered an EXTREMELY traumatic experience that I don’t wish upon anyone. One where all I needed was a group of friends to be there and talk. There was not an ounce of shame in what I was diagnosed with, but in that moment, I truly felt like a monster and completely mortified of my own existence. I wasn’t allowed to share my story, nor defend myself when explaining what truly happened to me.
For the last twelve years, I’ve been open about being in remission and have answered any questions about health maintenance recommendations when having a mental illness. I’ve talked about what its like to go through the highs and lows. However, I’ve been quiet about the most important and frankly intense part. And that is the road to physical recovery and adjustment to medication. It’s a subject that is considered taboo to some people, but to be honest, something is only taboo if you make it so. So in support of others starting to go through the same thing as me, here’s a little insight into my year long journey to recovery.
I came home from school one day and the next day I was all of a sudden in inpatient treatment being given new medication that beat up my body like a UFC fight. When I was released from treatment and first came back to school, I was scared out of my God damn mind. At that point, I was about 20 pounds underweight and there was absolutely no coloring in my skin. I remember it took every ounce of me to walk up the stairs, my joints were locking up due to side effects, and I could barely carry my books. Nobody was allowed to talk about what happened to me, so it created this constant elephant in the room when I would show up places. At no teenager’s fault, we had no idea what to do or say. So I was left dealing with it all by myself.
I distinctly remember one morning in particular when everything hit. I was walking up the stairs near the student lounge. My muscles were completely weak and I was exhausted. As I took another step, my school bag ripped, causing all of my books, binders and pens to tumble and spill down the flight of stairs. Unable to take anything anymore, I fell to my feet and burst out crying. I then frantically looked around and saw that there was nobody to be seen. For a second I sat there and tried to take everything in. Never in my life had I felt more by myself. I was suffering intensely and couldn’t tell anyone what I was going through day to day. I thought, “How the hell did everything get here?”. Everything in that moment felt completely overwhelming. The temporary medication I was on was so intense that I no longer felt like myself or I could be myself. I couldn’t retain information like I normally could and had to be on special accommodations, causing my parents to constantly help me with my school work. There were strict times that I had to take my medication, so I was on a medical curfew and couldn’t be out late with friends nor could I really hangout with them anymore. I felt completely distant from everyone. On top of that, my medication prevented me from operating a vehicle and my mom had to drive me everywhere. And what teenager wants to feel like a burden bugging everyone for rides?
All of this was hitting me as I sat on the stairs and I thought to myself, “The only person that’s going to pick me up is me.” And that was true. So I picked up what was left of my bag and borrowed a grocery bag for the day from the school office. About a couple days later I had an appointment with my psychiatrist. Everything felt just terrible, and I wanted to do anything so that I could have a normal life again. I asked, “What do I have to do to have my life back again?”. He said, “Well, you’re doing it. Take all your medications strictly on time. Get your 8 hours of sleep. Drink 8 glasses of water a day so your levels stay intact. Get regular exercise. Remember, you’re just like anyone else. This is incredibly common. Biggest difference? Your brain doesn’t secrete enough chemicals without medication. Think of it as strictly scientific. Its like a diabetic needing their insulin or someone with asthma needing an inhaler. If you drink someday, you just have to drink more water than the next person so your levels don’t get thrown off. But I will tell you right now, if you touch ANY hard drugs, you’ll be right back where you started.” This statement changed my approach forever. I was going to take this advice as my golden ticket. A ticket that only I could control, and by God nobody else was going to tell me I couldn’t. With this advice I was given, I also promised myself that for the rest of my life, I’d never let someone else go through something terrible all by themselves. That not only would I never stigmatize them for what was happening to them, but that I would always be an ear for them, be extra sensitive to others, and never let them feel alone in their struggles. I’d let them talk to me about ANYTHING whenever they needed it.
After roughly a year, my body finally made a full recovery and adjusted to my medication. Going through something so difficult by myself at a young age was terrible, but I will say it made me very sensitive to others and gave me almost a sixth sense when someone else is struggling. It made me hyper aware that we are all dealing with so many unknown things, so it is of the utmost importance to be kind as we do not know what someone is going through.
Throughout the last twelve years, people have asked me over and over again what do to when someone else is struggling. And I always think back to the phrase, “If you tell people you’re Bipolar they’re going to think you’re crazy.” First of all, never say something like that. Every single day I play that sentence in my head and it instills unnecessary shame and fear. I have NEVER gotten that response, and simply because nobody that’s Bipolar or suffers a mental illness is crazy. I’ve learned people are kinder than you’d think.
Be VERY mindful of your word choice. And more than anything, don’t focus so much on what to say, focus on how you can help. Just BE THERE. We find a lot of times that we need to say something philosophical or brilliant, or that we need to fix something for that person. However that is not the case most of the time. Most people just want an ear, to feel heard, and to feel seen. Maybe something as simple as, “I’m so sorry that you are suffering. How can I best support you? Know I am here.” Sometimes even something as simple as a funny GIF in a text helps or just asking someone to hangout out of the blue. What has saved me over the years is a simple text that reads, “Was thinking of you and wanted to reach out. How are you?”. But the best of all is, “Tell me what’s going on. I’m here to listen.” Letting someone be vulnerable and open up about their struggles is one of the most powerful and helpful things one can do as a friend. Because then they are not alone. And they know things will be okay. Sometimes all you need to do is listen. If someone needs to talk about something, let them. It will significantly boost their recovery. Will it be an uncomfortable or intense topic sometimes? Yes. But that is life. It is only taboo if we make it taboo. And sometimes we need to get comfortable with being uncomfortable. Stigma is taught, and it is on us to break it. It all starts with a conversation. And that conversation could save a life.
Be well and remember,
#PushThrough