Colleen
Enough Already

I don’t know when bipolar disorder actually started affecting my life. I do know that I was a very artistic and gifted child. I had a huge inner world that didn’t fit well with the world outside me. My grasp on reality always seemed a bit tenuous, and I felt like I was different and special – someone with a superhuman calling and mission. Someday, I would create the most compelling novels/poetry/songs/art or do something else brilliant. The difference between my desires and what I actually achieved has been a major source of pain for me.

I developed an eating disorder early on. My mother and I were locked in a power struggle since I was very young. She seemed determined that I eat, so I became very determined that I wouldn’t. This continued through adolescence. I would alternately binge and starve.

I started abusing drugs when I was 13. I smoked a lot of pot, took acid several times, and drank alcohol. I had delusions, paranoia, and maybe even some psychosis. I realized I was in trouble, and stopped using all drugs when I was 15. I’m not sure I ate much of anything at all for those two years. I was painfully thin.

I first sought help in college. I was screened for an eating disorder, and diagnosed as having a mild form of bulimia. My life was a train wreck – I got married at 20 to a guy I could hardly stand. I had a baby boy at 21, got divorced at 24, remarried at 24, divorced at 29, remarried at 35, and divorced at 40. All the while I cycled with depression and mania. I drank and took antidepressants prescribed by my family doctor. I went to counseling on and off. I tried to be a perfect mother and raise my son the way I wish I had been raised. I saw many of the same traits in him that I had had as a child.

I finally admitted I might have bipolar disorder when I was in my mid-thirties. I still fought taking medication and admitting it’s a mental illness and lifelong condition. I had been asked by doctors before if I had mood swings, and I had said no. They hadn’t felt like mood swings to me. I’m now under the care of a really good psychiatrist, and I finally said yes to medication. It seems to be stabilizing what was a pretty extreme bout of mania.

I’ll soon be 45. I’m letting myself mourn for all the years that I tried to handle this on my own. All that failure – I thought I was a terrible person. I’m trying to learn to love myself and not be filled with guilt. I find it difficult to trust doctors. I find it hard to believe anyone else could know what’s best for me. I just don’t want to fail anymore. I don’t want more wreckage. If I have to take medication for the rest of my life, I’m finally willing to do it. I just want to get up every day and live and work and be with people I love and like, and not be out of mind with mania or depression. Enough already.