I was 20 years old when I first heard the word "bipolar." I was in a sterile, white room: a room with stained walls and cold, metal chairs. There were marks on the floor. Scuffs and crumbs and wisps of unswept hair. But that didn't bother me. Not really. What bothered me was my new diagnosis.
I wasn't sad or depressed, I was bipolar.
I'd be lying if I said I accepted my new label with grace. I mean, I started taking medication. Depakote. I went to therapy, as my psychiatrist suggested, and I attempted to make progress. I really, really tried. But I didn't believe I was sick, or at least not as sick as they were telling me, and after a few months, I stopped taking my meds — something which, over the last 16 years, I have done time and time again. But it didn't end well. It never ends well. And during my "withdrawal," my body began reacting.
Within days, I was exuberant, elated, and happy. I was working more and sleeping less. I was talkative. Very talkative. I text dozens of friends, friends who I hadn't spoken to in years, and I was confident. Hypomania was setting in. I also pitched hundreds of story ideas. I wrote more articles than I can count. Oh, and I dyed my hair. Over the span of a week, I sported three different shades. But I was seeing things. Hearing voices. The walls had eyes. My world was closing in. And I was drinking to manage. To deal. To cope.
I was also suicidal. When I am manic, I am always suicidal.
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