Saturday, March 30, 2013
I will admit that I am not much of a writer, however you cannot say I didn’t write. And what fuels writing is emotion and you cannot say I don’t feel. Most of the time, I wish I were wrong. I wish I didn’t feel a lot of the time. Lately, anxiety attacks eat away at me like the termites from inside a tree and when I lie in bed I feel like the few specks of sawdust so soiled the mites leave me be. Sleep is impossible. I mean good sleep. I just get small spurts of it and then back to work or studying. I’m sick and tired and I don’t know what to do or where to go. I just lie in bed. I never get out of bed. I don’t want to go out to a movie; it’s shameful to go to a movie alone as a young adult, isn’t it? And they people are less than nothing. They terrify me. I feel like if I don't do something soon I will never get better and its permanence is imminent. I'm being eaten alive by these butterflies inside me and it clicks, I realize my body is filled with nothing but me. Me caught halfway between suicide and barely adulthood. My writing is only the clinking on cell bars.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Soiled Linen
Sorry it's been so long since my last post. I've been keeping busy and there's been too much static in my head. Admittedly, and this is just somewhere to throw all of this, I was admitted to a hospital Monday morning for suicide. But let's back up a little--sometimes it's hard to concentrate.
I had a physician's appointment Monday morning prior to all of this. It was going smoothly. I filled out the paperwork for insurance, basic information (name, date of birth, street address, etc) and eventually was called in by a physician's assistant named Joe. Joe was pretty nice. He was extremely polite and his remarkable hospitality made me feel at ease for once. It was great. Height. Check. Weight. Check. Blood pressure. Check. All is well for now. As he led me to my physician's office I felt wonderful. I was whistling quietly to myself, grazing my finger slightly on the wall as I walked by, too. I felt all right. We sat down and he said in the doorway,
"She'll be right in. It was nice to meet you, Ryan."
It painted a smile right on my face and it was great. Sorry I keep reiterating that, but it's something near and dear to me when I can be happy over the small things. Then my physician, Liz, knocked on the door and walked in. She was nice, too, I suppose. She had an austere look in her face that she wore quite liberally and eventually that sense of ease slipped and poured out of my ears.
"Do you take any medication? Are you allergic to any medication?"
"No. No." I don't know why I was so brief. She probably thought I was being rude, but I hope the shake in my voice and the lump caught in my throat was a good indication I was nervous as ever to be there. After a few more questions for protocol the inevitable, "are you depressed or suffer from anxiety" question marched its way through my chest and raved my heart. I don't remember much. Of course I said yes. I couldn't go on having ignored or not mentioned this problem that had seemed to plague me for five or six years now. She stopped typing, but her eyes remained fixed on the computer screen that slightly illuminated her face.
"Do you have any suicidal thoughts?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Do you have a plan?"
"Well, I guess just stick through it all," I said. I couldn't have been more nervous.
"No, I mean, do you have a plan to kill yourself?"
"Oh, well, not exactly, but--"
"Have there been times where you have actually harmed yourself?" she interrupted.
"Yes."
"Okay, I don't feel comfortable with you being in the mental state that you are. We're going to admit you to St. Luke's hospital. Do you have a family member or a close friend who can drive you there? If not, we'll have to call the squad and they'll bring you up."
At first it felt like time stood still. And slowly it shattered in front of me. I felt like she thought I was insane or something. I was in complete disbelief and I even feel ashamed just talking about this here.
She fucking called the ambulance "the squad." Slap a straitjacket on me and toss me in one of those pillow-wallpapered rooms. Quickly, I called my father, naturally. He seems to be the only one in the family I can trust. No answer. Fuck. So, I called my mother. She didn't quite understand it when I told her I needed her to drive me to St. Luke's for a psychiatric evaluation.
Minutes later she arrived and we're sent off to St. Luke's emergency room. When we walked in, we were greeted by a security guard pointing us in the direction of a small room, about six by six with glass walls. I don't remember what he said to my mother, I was paying attention to everyone's look in the waiting room. I walked into the cramped room and was greeted by an older woman who was responsible for signing in patients. She asked me the same standard questions, "are you allergic to any medication? Are you on any medication?" "No. No." and immediately she slapped a yellow hospital band on me and pointed me to another woman, a nurse, much younger, in an identical room, twenty feet away.
The lump in my throat doubled its size and my palms were as sweaty as ever. She was also on a dimly lit computer and had asked me to sit. I don't remember much but after the typical standard medical questions about allergies and drugs passed she asked me to come with her. Turn after turn, door after door, face after face of doctors, security guards with cups to their mouths, inpatients, nurses, everyone we finally stopped. She was bent over in a bin with a folded gown in her hands. A fucking gown. Again, the familiar disbelief had set and my eyes widened as she looked at my feet to gauge what size socks she should give me.
"Take these and try them on. Also, I will need a urine sample." She gave me a plastic bag to put all of my clothes and shoes in.
"I'm sorry, I just went."
"It's okay, the bladder holds about ten drops." she said with a smile.
I entered the bathroom and quickly said good-bye via text message to my boyfriend because my reeling mind didn't know how long I'd be staying. Hours, days, weeks? I had absolutely no idea and I was trying my best not to cry like I did waiting for my mother to come pick me up from the physicians'.
In my fresh gown and gripped socks I walked out with everything I came in with in a bag later to be inspected. I felt like a prisoner. It was dehumanizing almost the way they looked at you. I remember having a black security guard stare at me from behind his cup.
"How's it goin'?" I asked.
"It's goin'." he said.
Standing outside what was to be my room, I saw two beds. One I was certain was for me, and another that was occupied by an elderly man who looked to be in his mid-seventies wrapped in a thin sheet wearing the same gown. He was talking to a social worker, but I couldn't hear anything. His eyes looked worn and bloodshot. He had a panicky look in his face and even his mouth that seemed to sag exposing his bottom teeth.
"Now, just come in here and sit on the bed, okay? There's a pillow there for you and a blanket. The doctor will be in shortly." the nurse said.
What was going on? What are you going to do to me? How long am I staying here? What about school? What about outside? Who is this?
The security guard, Carl S. (I could finally read his name tag) rolled his wheeled chair into my room at the foot of my bed.
"Sup, Ryan?" he said reading my name off his clipboard.
"How's it goin'?" I said.
"Nuttin' much, nuttin' much. Now, listen, I know why ya here, okay? We cool, all right?"
"All right."
"Now, I wanna try an' get 'ta know ya betta, is that all right?"
"Yeah, that's all right."
"Cool, thanks, Ryan. Now, what is it what you wanna do? Whattya like to do in your free time?" And I went on about how I enjoy writing, physics, astronomy, art, history and history seemed to have struck a chord with him.
"Aw, man. I love history. Ya know, I love two events that happened in history. Ya know those two? Well, the first is Jesus and the second is John F.K."
I appreciated him. I respected him for trying to help me. He knew I had never been in this situation before and he was trying to coax me out of my anxiety. I felt a little better.
After Carl left, it was me, the man sitting on the bed across the room and the curtain that separated us. I found out he was an alcoholic who wanted to be or was a pilot, I don't know, and hurt his family in some way. I was eavesdropping on him and the social worker when I waited for my EKG. Fun that was.
After that, an unexpected meal came. It was such a lovely surprise. It had to have been twelve-thirty at the earliest and I hadn't eaten since eight. They gave me salted potatoes, turkey with gravy although I didn't eat it since I'm a vegetarian, zucchini oddly, beef noodle soup, no thank you, coffee, thank fucking god. Piss water coffee is better than no coffee. They also gave me some milk, crackers and two cookies for dessert. I was nice having that try in front of me as I was in my gown and underwear. I felt a little more welcomed. A little. Eventually, the doctor came in. I couldn't understand his name when he said it because of his thick Indian accent and I didn't want to be caught reading it off his lab coat. He said I was to be admitted to the psych ward for five days. Quickly, I lost my appetite and sense of everything else. What? Throwing it on me that quickly? Reflecting on it now, the stigma of the psych ward is all backwards so I hear from a nurse who is close to me outside of the hospital and my new therapist, but she's a different story.
"We're going to admit you and you'll stay for five days as an inpatient." I'm sorry. What? Naturally, I refused. I told him no. I wasn't going to be an inpatient. I started crying and shaking my head. I couldn't stay there. I was over thinking, but still, I couldn't. I had school and I had to talk to Metin. After a few more minutes of his attempt to persuade me, we worked out a deal and my parents walked in. He asked if them if they thought I was stable enough to be an outpatient and if so, he required that I saw a therapist, like we agreed. Therapist or the psych ward. Obviously, I chose to attend therapy sessions. After a few more hours sitting there Indian style, I was given back my clothes and was handed discharge papers. I felt like a million-quintillion pounds were lifted off my shoulders and eventually I was out in the free world again.
The next day (today, actually) I attended my first therapy session, but maybe I'll cover that in another post.
I think I'm finally headed in the right direction. No, I know I'm headed in the right direction. I'm doing this for me, most importantly, so I can be happy and cure myself of these symptoms of depression and anxiety. I'm doing this for me and Metin and us and our future and our life together. This evidently means a great deal to me, my relationship with myself and with Metin because it's the first relationship I chose and was willing to get help while I was in it. I never sought help because I just didn't care enough. I finally have something to live for and it's worth every star in the sky, every pearl in the ocean. I'd give anything to make myself better. I'd do anything to make Metin happy. I hope, I need, I want this to be the first step toward a happy future for me. This is finally progress.
I had a physician's appointment Monday morning prior to all of this. It was going smoothly. I filled out the paperwork for insurance, basic information (name, date of birth, street address, etc) and eventually was called in by a physician's assistant named Joe. Joe was pretty nice. He was extremely polite and his remarkable hospitality made me feel at ease for once. It was great. Height. Check. Weight. Check. Blood pressure. Check. All is well for now. As he led me to my physician's office I felt wonderful. I was whistling quietly to myself, grazing my finger slightly on the wall as I walked by, too. I felt all right. We sat down and he said in the doorway,
"She'll be right in. It was nice to meet you, Ryan."
It painted a smile right on my face and it was great. Sorry I keep reiterating that, but it's something near and dear to me when I can be happy over the small things. Then my physician, Liz, knocked on the door and walked in. She was nice, too, I suppose. She had an austere look in her face that she wore quite liberally and eventually that sense of ease slipped and poured out of my ears.
"Do you take any medication? Are you allergic to any medication?"
"No. No." I don't know why I was so brief. She probably thought I was being rude, but I hope the shake in my voice and the lump caught in my throat was a good indication I was nervous as ever to be there. After a few more questions for protocol the inevitable, "are you depressed or suffer from anxiety" question marched its way through my chest and raved my heart. I don't remember much. Of course I said yes. I couldn't go on having ignored or not mentioned this problem that had seemed to plague me for five or six years now. She stopped typing, but her eyes remained fixed on the computer screen that slightly illuminated her face.
"Do you have any suicidal thoughts?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Do you have a plan?"
"Well, I guess just stick through it all," I said. I couldn't have been more nervous.
"No, I mean, do you have a plan to kill yourself?"
"Oh, well, not exactly, but--"
"Have there been times where you have actually harmed yourself?" she interrupted.
"Yes."
"Okay, I don't feel comfortable with you being in the mental state that you are. We're going to admit you to St. Luke's hospital. Do you have a family member or a close friend who can drive you there? If not, we'll have to call the squad and they'll bring you up."
At first it felt like time stood still. And slowly it shattered in front of me. I felt like she thought I was insane or something. I was in complete disbelief and I even feel ashamed just talking about this here.
She fucking called the ambulance "the squad." Slap a straitjacket on me and toss me in one of those pillow-wallpapered rooms. Quickly, I called my father, naturally. He seems to be the only one in the family I can trust. No answer. Fuck. So, I called my mother. She didn't quite understand it when I told her I needed her to drive me to St. Luke's for a psychiatric evaluation.
Minutes later she arrived and we're sent off to St. Luke's emergency room. When we walked in, we were greeted by a security guard pointing us in the direction of a small room, about six by six with glass walls. I don't remember what he said to my mother, I was paying attention to everyone's look in the waiting room. I walked into the cramped room and was greeted by an older woman who was responsible for signing in patients. She asked me the same standard questions, "are you allergic to any medication? Are you on any medication?" "No. No." and immediately she slapped a yellow hospital band on me and pointed me to another woman, a nurse, much younger, in an identical room, twenty feet away.
The lump in my throat doubled its size and my palms were as sweaty as ever. She was also on a dimly lit computer and had asked me to sit. I don't remember much but after the typical standard medical questions about allergies and drugs passed she asked me to come with her. Turn after turn, door after door, face after face of doctors, security guards with cups to their mouths, inpatients, nurses, everyone we finally stopped. She was bent over in a bin with a folded gown in her hands. A fucking gown. Again, the familiar disbelief had set and my eyes widened as she looked at my feet to gauge what size socks she should give me.
"Take these and try them on. Also, I will need a urine sample." She gave me a plastic bag to put all of my clothes and shoes in.
"I'm sorry, I just went."
"It's okay, the bladder holds about ten drops." she said with a smile.
I entered the bathroom and quickly said good-bye via text message to my boyfriend because my reeling mind didn't know how long I'd be staying. Hours, days, weeks? I had absolutely no idea and I was trying my best not to cry like I did waiting for my mother to come pick me up from the physicians'.
In my fresh gown and gripped socks I walked out with everything I came in with in a bag later to be inspected. I felt like a prisoner. It was dehumanizing almost the way they looked at you. I remember having a black security guard stare at me from behind his cup.
"How's it goin'?" I asked.
"It's goin'." he said.
Standing outside what was to be my room, I saw two beds. One I was certain was for me, and another that was occupied by an elderly man who looked to be in his mid-seventies wrapped in a thin sheet wearing the same gown. He was talking to a social worker, but I couldn't hear anything. His eyes looked worn and bloodshot. He had a panicky look in his face and even his mouth that seemed to sag exposing his bottom teeth.
"Now, just come in here and sit on the bed, okay? There's a pillow there for you and a blanket. The doctor will be in shortly." the nurse said.
What was going on? What are you going to do to me? How long am I staying here? What about school? What about outside? Who is this?
The security guard, Carl S. (I could finally read his name tag) rolled his wheeled chair into my room at the foot of my bed.
"Sup, Ryan?" he said reading my name off his clipboard.
"How's it goin'?" I said.
"Nuttin' much, nuttin' much. Now, listen, I know why ya here, okay? We cool, all right?"
"All right."
"Now, I wanna try an' get 'ta know ya betta, is that all right?"
"Yeah, that's all right."
"Cool, thanks, Ryan. Now, what is it what you wanna do? Whattya like to do in your free time?" And I went on about how I enjoy writing, physics, astronomy, art, history and history seemed to have struck a chord with him.
"Aw, man. I love history. Ya know, I love two events that happened in history. Ya know those two? Well, the first is Jesus and the second is John F.K."
I appreciated him. I respected him for trying to help me. He knew I had never been in this situation before and he was trying to coax me out of my anxiety. I felt a little better.
After Carl left, it was me, the man sitting on the bed across the room and the curtain that separated us. I found out he was an alcoholic who wanted to be or was a pilot, I don't know, and hurt his family in some way. I was eavesdropping on him and the social worker when I waited for my EKG. Fun that was.
After that, an unexpected meal came. It was such a lovely surprise. It had to have been twelve-thirty at the earliest and I hadn't eaten since eight. They gave me salted potatoes, turkey with gravy although I didn't eat it since I'm a vegetarian, zucchini oddly, beef noodle soup, no thank you, coffee, thank fucking god. Piss water coffee is better than no coffee. They also gave me some milk, crackers and two cookies for dessert. I was nice having that try in front of me as I was in my gown and underwear. I felt a little more welcomed. A little. Eventually, the doctor came in. I couldn't understand his name when he said it because of his thick Indian accent and I didn't want to be caught reading it off his lab coat. He said I was to be admitted to the psych ward for five days. Quickly, I lost my appetite and sense of everything else. What? Throwing it on me that quickly? Reflecting on it now, the stigma of the psych ward is all backwards so I hear from a nurse who is close to me outside of the hospital and my new therapist, but she's a different story.
"We're going to admit you and you'll stay for five days as an inpatient." I'm sorry. What? Naturally, I refused. I told him no. I wasn't going to be an inpatient. I started crying and shaking my head. I couldn't stay there. I was over thinking, but still, I couldn't. I had school and I had to talk to Metin. After a few more minutes of his attempt to persuade me, we worked out a deal and my parents walked in. He asked if them if they thought I was stable enough to be an outpatient and if so, he required that I saw a therapist, like we agreed. Therapist or the psych ward. Obviously, I chose to attend therapy sessions. After a few more hours sitting there Indian style, I was given back my clothes and was handed discharge papers. I felt like a million-quintillion pounds were lifted off my shoulders and eventually I was out in the free world again.
The next day (today, actually) I attended my first therapy session, but maybe I'll cover that in another post.
I think I'm finally headed in the right direction. No, I know I'm headed in the right direction. I'm doing this for me, most importantly, so I can be happy and cure myself of these symptoms of depression and anxiety. I'm doing this for me and Metin and us and our future and our life together. This evidently means a great deal to me, my relationship with myself and with Metin because it's the first relationship I chose and was willing to get help while I was in it. I never sought help because I just didn't care enough. I finally have something to live for and it's worth every star in the sky, every pearl in the ocean. I'd give anything to make myself better. I'd do anything to make Metin happy. I hope, I need, I want this to be the first step toward a happy future for me. This is finally progress.
Friday, March 1, 2013
The Tightrope Walker
I was born on a tightrope and forced to walk on a feeble, wind-tormented wire that sags over what is the rest of my life. No, I wasn't born alone up here. I wasn't the only one born on this rope. The ones labeled "freak" and "ugly" and countless others put on this balancing act and rehearse. Some are destined to fall.
The life of a manic depressive is almost identical to one of a normal life. When I'm happy, I'm happy. I'm silly. No need for a doctor. But when I am down, I am touched by Hell, I am touched by fire. I'm alone. These are all merely the thoughts of a twenty-year-old, however experiencing the effects of this illness--because it really is a mental illness--is something I, nor anyone, should take lightly.
Around the age of five, I vividly remember being at daycare getting myself ready to go outside with the other children to play. The sitter asked me to double-lace my shoelaces to which I replied by slapping her across the face. I didn't even know what double-lacing was. That rage inside anyone at such a young age typically would have been labeled as bad behavior, however I don't agree. This type of behavior is in fact inherited, very much like a gene from one of your parents who may have inherited it from their parents and then on.
If you look down and see a reason you should be down, then that brings with it a form of clarity, but if there's no reason you tend to think well why on earth am I feeling like this? I don't understand. You're often left to your own devices and you can attempt to try and reverse or stop this seemingly endless cycle of ups and downs through self-medication (narcotics, alcohol, reckless behavior, etc). But for me, the depression came before the substance abuse.
It's driven me to what seems irrevocably mad on some days, and to my misfortune it occurs at the most random times. I'll be having a conversation with a loved one and feel the sudden urge to rip all my hair out and dig my fingernails out from fingers. One of the difficulties on other days is feeling paranoid when performing the most mundane daily tasks. I can't go to the grocery store without feeling apprehensive or paranoid. It's a burden. It's a burden on me, on loved ones and everyone around me. Walking through the aisles seeing people looking at me. Why are you looking at me? Why is she watching me? He's following me. And I think, he's giving me a funny look. But then it clicks in: I'm getting paranoid again. People are giving me funny looks because I'm giving them funny looks. When I am very depressed I slow down and slow down and slow down to the point which I am not moving at all. I can see, I can hear, speak and breathe, but I feel utterly lethargic and lack that umph to move forward. And it can be quite embarrassing when I'm in the shop and people are walking passed me while I am just stuck there.
One thing I am unsure of how I feel about is prescribed medication. It terrifies me to wonder when I am diagnosed--I am very confident I will be, I'm getting the shakes right now just thinking about it--is if I will ever become addicted to my medication if I am authorized to take any supplements to calm this wary head. However, if it will stabilize this condition I want it. Desperately. Something for the paranoia, something for the sleep, something for the depression, something for psychotic thinking. Anything (and hopefully supplements that will stop my hair from falling out from mood stabilizers).
And while battling this illness there are many days I hate myself and sort of sobbing and tearing at the walls of my own brain. But I always have voices in my head saying what a useless bastard I am, and the voice is my own just telling me what a worthless lump of shit I am. I have had copious encounters with depression and the worst sides of it, namely, suicide. Yes, I've tried more than once. I've stepped in front of an oncoming train, I've tried to drill a hole through my head with a power drill. I've tried overdosing on pain killers that weren't even prescribed to me, but my father. Please, understand I was so utterly despairing at that time in my life (age 15-19) I couldn't take any more.
It's perhaps a hard fact to accept, but one we should face that of those people who have severe bipolarity and aren't receiving treatment, half attempt suicide and twenty percent succeed.
I was surprised to realize that I felt like this, but I no longer am as it is a result of my illness and not me. I have a disease of the brain I share with countless millions all over the world. It's left me kicked out of college for poor grades, nearly arrested for what I'd rather not share and attempting suicide all by the age of 17. It has indeed tormented me all my life with the deepest of depressions while giving me the energy and creativity that will hopefully someday launch the stable career for me that I have yearned for since such a young age.
If I were to be presented with a button that will eradicate all symptoms of bipolarity, manic depression, mood swings, all forms of mania and remove them from my life, I would not press that button. I love the life I live simply because it was the one given to me. What comes to mind is when you love the flaws of your significant other. I love my life because it is mine and no one else's. Maybe this is an up speaking for me. I'm sure there will be a down coming over now walking the streets to knock on my door and kick my ass for saying that, but it's true. I love the life I lead no matter how badly I want it all to stop, how I feel worthless, or want to kill myself. I hope this is all coherent. I just want to succeed despite my illness more than anything. I need to make something of myself, not only for myself, but for my loved ones. I need to feel wanted, remembered, significant. Infinite. We're all on this tightrope called life. Some fall, and some have the balance not called courage, but the lack of anxiety.
Thanks for reading.
-Ryan
The life of a manic depressive is almost identical to one of a normal life. When I'm happy, I'm happy. I'm silly. No need for a doctor. But when I am down, I am touched by Hell, I am touched by fire. I'm alone. These are all merely the thoughts of a twenty-year-old, however experiencing the effects of this illness--because it really is a mental illness--is something I, nor anyone, should take lightly.
Around the age of five, I vividly remember being at daycare getting myself ready to go outside with the other children to play. The sitter asked me to double-lace my shoelaces to which I replied by slapping her across the face. I didn't even know what double-lacing was. That rage inside anyone at such a young age typically would have been labeled as bad behavior, however I don't agree. This type of behavior is in fact inherited, very much like a gene from one of your parents who may have inherited it from their parents and then on.
If you look down and see a reason you should be down, then that brings with it a form of clarity, but if there's no reason you tend to think well why on earth am I feeling like this? I don't understand. You're often left to your own devices and you can attempt to try and reverse or stop this seemingly endless cycle of ups and downs through self-medication (narcotics, alcohol, reckless behavior, etc). But for me, the depression came before the substance abuse.
It's driven me to what seems irrevocably mad on some days, and to my misfortune it occurs at the most random times. I'll be having a conversation with a loved one and feel the sudden urge to rip all my hair out and dig my fingernails out from fingers. One of the difficulties on other days is feeling paranoid when performing the most mundane daily tasks. I can't go to the grocery store without feeling apprehensive or paranoid. It's a burden. It's a burden on me, on loved ones and everyone around me. Walking through the aisles seeing people looking at me. Why are you looking at me? Why is she watching me? He's following me. And I think, he's giving me a funny look. But then it clicks in: I'm getting paranoid again. People are giving me funny looks because I'm giving them funny looks. When I am very depressed I slow down and slow down and slow down to the point which I am not moving at all. I can see, I can hear, speak and breathe, but I feel utterly lethargic and lack that umph to move forward. And it can be quite embarrassing when I'm in the shop and people are walking passed me while I am just stuck there.
One thing I am unsure of how I feel about is prescribed medication. It terrifies me to wonder when I am diagnosed--I am very confident I will be, I'm getting the shakes right now just thinking about it--is if I will ever become addicted to my medication if I am authorized to take any supplements to calm this wary head. However, if it will stabilize this condition I want it. Desperately. Something for the paranoia, something for the sleep, something for the depression, something for psychotic thinking. Anything (and hopefully supplements that will stop my hair from falling out from mood stabilizers).
And while battling this illness there are many days I hate myself and sort of sobbing and tearing at the walls of my own brain. But I always have voices in my head saying what a useless bastard I am, and the voice is my own just telling me what a worthless lump of shit I am. I have had copious encounters with depression and the worst sides of it, namely, suicide. Yes, I've tried more than once. I've stepped in front of an oncoming train, I've tried to drill a hole through my head with a power drill. I've tried overdosing on pain killers that weren't even prescribed to me, but my father. Please, understand I was so utterly despairing at that time in my life (age 15-19) I couldn't take any more.
It's perhaps a hard fact to accept, but one we should face that of those people who have severe bipolarity and aren't receiving treatment, half attempt suicide and twenty percent succeed.
I was surprised to realize that I felt like this, but I no longer am as it is a result of my illness and not me. I have a disease of the brain I share with countless millions all over the world. It's left me kicked out of college for poor grades, nearly arrested for what I'd rather not share and attempting suicide all by the age of 17. It has indeed tormented me all my life with the deepest of depressions while giving me the energy and creativity that will hopefully someday launch the stable career for me that I have yearned for since such a young age.
If I were to be presented with a button that will eradicate all symptoms of bipolarity, manic depression, mood swings, all forms of mania and remove them from my life, I would not press that button. I love the life I live simply because it was the one given to me. What comes to mind is when you love the flaws of your significant other. I love my life because it is mine and no one else's. Maybe this is an up speaking for me. I'm sure there will be a down coming over now walking the streets to knock on my door and kick my ass for saying that, but it's true. I love the life I lead no matter how badly I want it all to stop, how I feel worthless, or want to kill myself. I hope this is all coherent. I just want to succeed despite my illness more than anything. I need to make something of myself, not only for myself, but for my loved ones. I need to feel wanted, remembered, significant. Infinite. We're all on this tightrope called life. Some fall, and some have the balance not called courage, but the lack of anxiety.
Thanks for reading.
-Ryan
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