[bipolargal]

I wrote this as a way to vent about my personal experience. I'm sorry that it's long and filled with errors; English is not my first language.


Bipolar diaries: Life from a slightly disturbed mind’s perspective.
By: Anonymous

I was first diagnosed after a big breakdown some time ago. I felt destroyed and helpless. The sadness felt so intense; the emotional pain felt almost psychical. My mother decided to take me to the hospital after I cried for straight hours. When I got there I was aggressive towards the nurses at the hospital. I felt scared and confused. They wanted to keep me at the hospital for a week, but I did not want to stay there for long because I had an oncoming trip to California. I felt like I was going to lose an opportunity. I felt like my life was over when they almost forced me to stay. I agreed to stay after they told me that I would be out before my trip. After they the nurse I was aggressive to took my vitals, they took my picture. My eyes were filled with a deep sadness; a sadness that no one could understand. When I looked at that picture, I saw that the emotions I was feeling at the moment were trapped inside of it. You did not have to ask how I felt; the picture said it all. I did not understand at the moment why I felt the way I did, but after they explained to me the chemical misbalance in my brain, called bipolar disorder type I, I understood what was happening. They told me that because of this disorder I felt emotions at a higher level than others, but I refused to accept that I was sick, and that I was going to live with, what seemed as a curse at the moment, forever.

The nurses took me to another room and I said goodbye to my mother and my brother. They were devastated to see me acting the way that I did. I felt scared and confused. I did not know what was waiting for me behind those cold doors. The atmosphere at the hospital felt terrible; it felt like I thought before a psychiatric hospital would feel. The nurses gave me medications to sedate me, took my personal details, and asked me how I felt. I did not respond; I stayed silent for a while. A couple of moments later a male nurse approached me, and asked me how old I was. I told him that I was 22, and he said that I was too young and too beautiful to be suffering the way I was. They finally took me to a large room were other women slept. The room felt like a freezer. It felt even worse, because I did not go to the hospital prepared to stay; I did not bring any shoes, clothes or blankets. The nurses had to give me a couple of extra sheets so I could keep warm. The next day my mother brought me my belongings so I could be comfortable during my stay. The women at our room talked to me, and each one of them told me why they were there. Their stories were even worse than mine; I felt like a brat for making such a big deal out of my recent discovery. Most of them were schizophrenic, others had severe depression; I was the only bipolar one. The day went by, and we entertained ourselves telling each other stories about our daily lives. They took us to a big dinning room by midday. I felt a big skeptical about the food at first, but after I took my first day I knew that the food was delicious. We met other women from the second floor, and we discovered that we were going upstairs with them after a couple of rooms cleared up. They told us that we could do more stuff up there. We were anxious to get there, because our big room felt almost like a jail.
The hours began to pass, and little by little each one of us was taken to the second floor. They were right; it was better up there. The second floor had a common room and we were able to do fun activities during the day. I met two girls my age; I remember that one of them felt jealous that I was talking to the other. After I noticed that, I just hung out with the women I met at the first floor. Each night we took our medicine, and I felt like my mind drifted away each time I took them. They also let us call our families each night. My mom’s voice sounded depressed each time that I talked to her, but I assured her that I was alright. During my third day, I think, my psychiatrist finally talked to me. She was an eccentric woman. Her hair was half white, half black. She wore big black boots and colorful clothes. I told her that I wanted to go to California, that I did not wanted to be there for a long time. We agreed that she was going to let me out of the hospital early, but that I had to promise that I was going to take my medication, and behave during my stay there. Two days later after I talked to my doctor, I was released from the hospital. I felt a lot better. I was glad to meet other people that were going through similar situations, and I was able to understand my disorder a bit better.
Two days later I was on my way to California. The trip was 8 hours long. I remember that the airline was American Airlines. When I got there, my friend picked me up. The air felt cold, but it was only 58 degrees; I guess that, since I am used to a life in the tropics, it felt that way. We got to his house, and I met his roommate. He was a fun looking guy. We watched TV before going to bed. The next day, the most important day of the trip, I woke up feeling good and hopeful, because I had my master’s degree interview. I was taken to the college campus in San Francisco by my friend before he went to work. I got there an hour later because of traffic. When I first saw the campus, I liked what I saw. It was small compared to mine, but it felt cozy. I walked around for a bit, and then I went to the professor’s office. She looked like a really sweet person, she was the kind of person I expected her to be. She asked me if I wanted to do the interview in English or in Italian; I chose Italian, because I felt more comfortable that way. We talked about my academic achievements during my four years in college, and she was impressed. After I finished my interview, she invited me over to a class. I answered a couple of questions she made, because I had taken a similar class back home. I really like the Italian language and literature. I remember taking a Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri at college. I had a lot of fun reading it in its original language. My friend’s roommate called me later to go to a mall nearby with him. I took a bus there, and we met there. It was a big mall. I bought a couple of things, and we ate there. We went back to the house, and we all watched TV together.
The next day, my friend and I, went on a tour on Alcatraz. I liked the tour. We walked around San Francisco afterwards; my favorite place was Fisherman’s Warf. On Sunday, my last day, we all went together to the Golden Gate Bridge. It was majestic. Afterwards we drove around the area. The guys took me to Cheesecake Factory, and I ate like a maniac. We went to Stanford later, and I have to say that it is a beautiful place. That night we visited Google’s headquarters, since my friend works there, and we walked around a bit. Later we bought wine and we drank it while we watched a movie. It was a good day. Monday morning came, and I was sad. I said goodbye to them and got on the plane.
Being back home felt weird. The sadness that I felt before leaving invaded me once again. I figured that escaping from my problems was not going to make them go away. Christmas’ time came, and I began to feel even more depressed seeing everyone else happy. I drowned my sadness with the high of my medication. I actually met someone during the holidays, and I felt a bit better, but as time went by things began to fall apart. He has had severe depression for over two years, and me being bipolar did not help either. Two people with mental issues do not seem to combine, but I will never know, because I have never tried it again. On May I fell into a deep depression. I knew that I had to do something about it, and I was hospitalized again; not once, but 3 times. I was in and out of the hospital. The second time I met a lot of people. They made the hospital feel a lot better. This time I was taken to another hospital, and I liked it. Men and women were together. There were a lot of war veterans suffering PTSD in there. It felt nice to hear their stories. I bonded with an old lady, she reminded me of my grandma. There was also a guy about my age, we became friends. He had a patch to decrease his urge to smoke. He told me every day that he wanted one. One of the veterans was interested in me, and we talked while we were there, but I did not want to be in a relationship with anyone, and he was 14 years older than me. The nurses in the hospital were really sweet. We had therapy a 3 times each day. My favorite therapy was when we got to sing karaoke at night; it was a good way to distract myself. The food there was awesome, too. We could actually choose what we wanted to eat every day. The old lady left before we did, and the patch guy and I felt like our grandma had just left. I left a day later.
A week later I felt depressed, yet again, and I drank bleach. I regretted it soon, and drove back home. I called my mom from the front yard, and collapsed right there. My brother and my grandpa picked me up, and took me to a nearby hospital. The nurses pumped my stomach, and, afterwards, transferred me back to the same hospital I was in a week before. The nurses, when they saw me, greeted me back. The first day I was there I bonded with two guys my age, and a middle-aged woman. The woman talked about her sons, and how they had competed at the Olympics. The guys told me that they were depressed, and how they felt like they did not have a way out. I understood what they were saying. One of them had a crush on me, but like before, I told him that I was not ready for a relationship. I also had in mind what had happened with the guy that I dated during Christmas’ time; I knew that a relationship between two people like us would not work. I met an old man that looked just like my grandpa. He was a war veteran and had fought in Vietnam. I told him about my grandpa, and how he was a veteran himself. When my grandpa came to visit me a couple of days after, I introduced them, and they talked about their time in service.
Two days after my family’s visit, I went back home. I saw on Facebook an advertisement for a two-week sewing workshop. I knew that I wanted to spend my two last weeks of summer there. There were a lot of people my age, and kids, too. We all made dresses inspired in the 50’s. I really liked our teachers; I still talk to them. By the end of the workshop, we had a fashion show, were we showed to a large audience our creations. We modeled the dresses ourselves. A modeling agency owner was there. The day before she tried to show us how to walk properly. She saw me, and said that I had potential. The fashion show went really well, it was really fun, and we were all happy for each other.
Even though I was accepted at the university in San Francisco, I decided to stay in my country for different reasons. I’m doing my master’s here in Translation; at first I was not happy with my decision, but I figured that I like it, and it was more practical than studying Italian Literature. The semester started in August 12. The classes seemed hard, but I was having a good time. I was happy, but at the same time, I felt sad inside; I felt alone. One day I was walking around campus, and I saw a group of students. They were singing gospel songs, and they looked happy doing it. One of them approached me, and asked me to join them. By the end of the activity, one of the girls asked me to pray for me. She prayed for me, and I cried. I cried, because, for the first time, I felt like as God was hugging me when she hugged me; He used her as a way to reach me. They welcomed me to the group and I left for class. I continued to spend time with that Christian group. I felt comfortable, because, even though we’re from different denominations, all of us are Christian. We can put aside our differences to reach the same goal. Things began to get better. I actually called back the modeling agency owner, and she asked me to take a couple of workshops at the agency to get better. There I met a lot of girls that liked the same things that I did. By October I went on a retreat with the guys from my youth group. It was a great weekend, and we all grew. Sometime in between a friend of mine recommended me to a great photographer. We talked, and he decided to take a couple of shots of me. The pictures came out really well; they were stunning. The weeks went by, and things seemed to get better. By the end of that month, I met a guy. We dated for a while, but it did not last. I do not know how to manage relationships well, and this one actually made me see what I was doing wrong. I was sad about it ending, but I accepted it. I know know that God put him in my life for a short time to make me understand how to deal with other people, and I am thankful for that.
After that short relationship, if it can be called that, I decided, before the holidays ended, to go to Florida to visit one of my best friends. I was excited to see him for the first time in 10 years. I met a lot of his friends, and found a job as a volunteer at a cat shelter while I was there. The job filled me with joy. By the end of my vacation there, I went to a party in Tampa. There I met a really nice guy; we danced all night, and, when the party ended, we exchanged our Instagram usernames. Two days my friend told me that we were going back to the same place in Tampa. I contacted the guy that I met there, and we saw each other again. We bonded a bit, and we exchanged phone numbers. He is a great person. The next day I had to leave, but I was stuck at the airport in Tampa. The friend that I met at the party rescued me, and we hung out one last time. It was a good evening even though I was not home. He took me back the next day, and we promised to keep in touch. I am glad that I met him; he’s a blessing and I always pray for me, he does the same for me, too. It is nice to have friends like that.
I went back to reality, and I feel a lot better. I have good friends, and I feel, for the first time, stable. I know now that my bipolar disorder is not a curse, it is something that I have to deal with. It is something that makes me stronger, and makes that enhances my emotions. I have everything I want right now: I have my family, good friends, my studies, my talents, my modeling, and the satisfaction that I am doing something to make a difference, even if it is a small one. I know that I can beat this, and that it will not beat me. I have survived many times, and had a lot of opportunities to live. I know now that I was put in this world for something, and no one, not even a battle that I constantly fight against my mind, against myself, will keep me down. I know that I will serve as an example for others, and help them fight their inner demons. I am bipolar, but that does not mean that I am my disorder. Being bipolar does not mean that I am a bad person; being bipolar means that I feel everything deeper than others. Maybe that is not a bad thing. I know that I will sadder than other people, but I also know that I will be able to love others more intensely than anybody else. My life has not ended; I will live.