I found out I had bipolar disorder when I was 14. That
was a red-letter year for me. Two weeks before my 14th birthday, I was
raped. About a month after that, I started shooting heroin as a result
of the pain and anguish I was going through. I wanted to numb the pain.
For the next five years I was in and out of rehabs and psychiatric
wards, only to come home for a few months to smoke crack or shoot up.
When I finally came home from my last stay, I spent my
days doing the same thing I was doing, only to a lesser degree. That was
how I justified it. I saw my therapist every week and sometimes twice a
week. She ultimately saved me. Back then I didn't know that therapy had
to coincide with my meds. The two are a team -- they can't work without
each other.
By the time I was 20, I started to get a hold on my
moods, and learned to cope with them as they came. Today I'm on 6
medications. It's a lot, but it's also my lifeline. I've had the cocky
attitude and told everyone that I'm not taking them, but that just
landed me back in the hospital
This illness is something that I had to accept.
Learning to accept your disease and everything that comes along with it
is a good tool to handle it. Today I'm 22 and in college. I'm an English
major and have published several poems. I was even president of the
Student Advisory Board. I believe that if you don't fight the disease
and work with it, you can be as successful as you want to be. I learned
not to live behind a morbid facade, but to live a fruitful life by being
me.
