Bipolar: My Story - Part 1

I am a bipolar person. I learned this, officially, when I was 22. I had felt it for years, though I had no idea what it was. As psychology is not taught in high school (at least, not when I went to high school from 1987-1991) as a serious discipline and my parents were not educated in the subject, I, like most people my age, went about my business. That meant my day to day affairs. Like all young people, school was my job for virtually my whole life and functioning in that environment was my responsibility. The focus was on getting the job done. That meant good grades, good behavior, success at sports (really success at everything) within reason. While my parents preached this success to me, they were also much more relaxed about it. "Don't work too hard," was what my Dad frequently said, not because he was lazy or wanted me to be but because he didn't want me to be stressed at the day to day routine that life was. I, however, from a young age, was temperamental. I believe that part of my genes came from my grandfather on my mother's side. Growing up, I always took myself and everything that happened to me deadly seriously. When triggered, I had a ferocious intensity about me, a competitive streak. I had to win and not only win big. I had to dominate or it wouldn't matter. This streak could be extremely vicious and out of control. When I was in an intense mood, it was usually overwhelming. My brain would light fire and burn for awhile. By the time I was 18 and the stress of leaving home was rapidly approaching, the fire seemed to burn hotter and hotter until it became an existential rage. My school years were successful and I wouldn't be necessarily be angry at anything in my world (though I often convinced myself I was.) LL Cool J's "Mama said knock you out," was how I felt in growing regularity. I got into hard core rap because they were intensely angry, though they, in their minds, had a societal reason to be. I didn't, yet I was full of rage anyway. I knew something was wrong but I didn't know what. Right around that time, my parents separated for good. Though I had always been a somewhat morose person, getting down for what often seemed like foolish reasons, I had never been in a tailspin like the one started when my parents separated. We had moved out of state when I was 10 and I had been greatly abused by the kids at my new school. I cherished my home life in compensation and lived in dread for the approaching time when I had to go to school to be attacked. Though being insulted and, conversely, learning to insult others, was my day to day life, I had some friends though I was never near what would be called popular. When my parents separated, my mother started to tell me all kinds of terrible things about their relationship. As I was a freshman in college and my life was just taking off, this parental instability preyed greatly on my mind and affected me at school. Prodded by my increasingly unstable mother, I went to a psychiatrist and was diagnosed with depression. This started my journey to diagnosis, every psyche drug in the book, eventual learning and my striving for moments of mental and emotional clarity, acceptance and freedom from pain (which is a constant fight.) I saw my college life, friendships, personality and health plummet to near incompetence and complete lack of functioning as I tried to figure myself out amidst near constant family criticism. I failed miserably several times in many things I attempted, suicidal in my mind many times and at the edge of attempts a few times. I was completely lose emotionally for many years until, after leaving and going back to college several times as I tried to "get my head straight" as I called it, I was so sick I literally stopped going to class in 1996, hanging out with some friends for the next few months, living in terror of when I'd have to tell my father that I had had to quit on school. He was emotionally abusive towards me when he found out, treating me like I was deadbeat (my Dad is a Republican) who was just a lazy bum. Just before I told him, I was committed to committing suicide beforehand but I couldn't do it. I soon checked myself in to my first clinic. I had no insurance and my father paid for it, angry as hell the whole way. This was in the summer of 1996. As much hell as I had gone through, my most hellish years (and moments of triumph), were still to come. I will continue with that part of my story later. Relating a few things I have experienced has made me very, very tired and very, very sad. I want other bipolars and people with other mental illnesses to draw strength from my comments. I very much want to help others like me. Those that have been through hell and are possibly experiencing such things now, I can only offer my love and support from a distance and in spirit. I wish there was gold at the end of every rainbow (including mine) but it is hell having a mental illness and our futures are always uncertain. You are welcomed and constantly loved wherever you are. I would help physically if I could but all I can offer is care over cyber space. I care. As only one human being, I am always with you with love and understanding. Please be strong and hope.