Hi all,

I've never posted on the PTSD forum before, so I figured I ought to come by & say hello!

I often forget about this, but I was actually diagnosed with PTSD about a year before my long-standing major depression was even recognized! So here's my story, for what it's worth: I was dealing with a lot of issues regarding a tumultuous, 4 year long relationship with a guy who was (sorry to be so cheesy!) the love of my life. He had severe bipolar disorder, and he refused any sort of treatment. He was a brilliant artist, musician, & poet, and his mania fueled his unique brand of creativity. But as his manic & depressive episodes became more severe, a lot of problems came up -- he developed a lot of substance abuse issues, and within our relationship he became verbally, physically, and even occasionally sexually abusive towards me. His mania filled him with such fierce rage & confusion... it was more than one person could hold within himself... and since I was the person closest to him, when all that rage overflowed, I usually took the brunt of it. The beatings were really nothing compared to the endless hours of yelling and ranting -- he was very intelligent & insightful, and therefore could be extremely cruel. I didn't know much about bipolar disorder at the time, and I couldn't understand why he seemed to have so much hostility & hatred towards me, when I loved him so intensely! I wanted to help him, but felt powerless.

His behavior became increasingly erratic & dangerous... it was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. Eventually I was no longer able to deal with it. One particularly bad night, he threw me down the stairs, punched me in the face for what seemed like hours on end, held a knife to my throat and threatened to stab me. I was so confused... this wasn't him... something insidious had taken him over. I still wanted so badly to help him... but realizing that my life was in danger, I left. Moved out later that weekend and started staying with my parents.

Early in the morning on April 10, 2006, a couple of his friends found him unconscious in his van after a week-long meth binge. Someone tried to resuscitate him, but he's already been gone for hours. Weeks later, the tox screen came back -- apparently he had taken a large dose of methadone, trying to come down. It was ruled an accidental overdose, but I knew him too well to see it as anything other than a passive-aggressive means of committing suicide. Regardless, it was a tragic & senseless loss of an intensely beautiful, intensely troubled human being...

After his death, I basically ceased to function. I come from a family with a rather closed-minded attitude toward mental illness, so I had learned to cope with and hide the immense depression I'd felt from childhood onward pretty successfully. But I simply couldn't handle this; I fell apart. This was the catalyst for my parents to accept that I was not well and to get help for me. I guess if you want to look on the positive side of things, my boyfriend gave me a great gift through his death -- I'm certain that if it wasn't for such extreme trauma, I would have spent my whole life in denial of my own bipolar disorder & never would have gotten the help I need!

Whew! Sorry-- I had no intention of writing such a loooong post! I'm in hypo mode at the moment, and I tend to get carried away. Many thanks to anyone who was able to make it all the way thru that...