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Being Bipolar

Growing Up with the Constant Feeling of Anxiety and Sadness

By Kim KohlPublished 6 years ago 3 min read
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Growing up, I remember being sad, anxious, and always wanting to cry. Hell, I always was crying. Whenever I was asked what was wrong, I didn't know how to respond. The fear of upsetting people left me muted in a way. Therefore, I never told anyone how I felt.

The damage that did to me mentally without a doubt sucked. Sitting in therapist and psychiatrist offices quietly, letting them do all the talking, not telling people how I felt, always keeping my mouth shut — it all took a huge toll on me.

In elementary school, my crying wasn’t once a week or month. No, it was about once a day. Getting yelled at so much due to all the crying that I did was almost routine. The teachers would yell at me out of frustration and annoyance — frustration, because I would not ever tell them why I was crying, and annoyance, because of how much I would cry.

Then came along middle school. I was emotionally numb throughout sixth and seventh grade. I guess you could say I would “act out.” Since I never spoke up and used my words to explain how I felt, maybe “acting out” was my way of expressing my underlying anger at everyone for making me feel unusually bad about myself. Skipping classes and getting bad grades was new for me. I used to get all A’s and maybe one or two B’s. Then suddenly I was getting all D’s or even F’s.

In the years of middle school was when the cutting myself began. The cutting made me feel better at the time. Looking back on it, I can’t fathom on why I would do that to my own body — my own body, something I should love, treasure, and take care of.

When eighth grade came along, being emotionally numb was out the door. Here came being overemotional. It wasn’t until eighth grade (age 13) that I was actually diagnosed with bipolar disorder. After I had a serious overdose on a full bottle of sleeping pills as I had an enormous amount of hopelessness and discouragement about life, I was put in the ICU for a few days, then the pediatric floor of the hospital. I almost died. Almost. Am I ashamed of this overdose? At first, yes, I was very embarrassed and couldn’t even say one word about it. Now though, I’m not ashamed of it, nor am I proud. I’m just kind of indifferent with it. After all that, I went into a mental health hospital.

From that first hospitalization at age 13-years-old, I went on to have seven more mental health hospitalizations. I have always wondered why people think getting admitted to a mental health hospital is fun. All it is, is going to groups to discuss why you are there — eating your meals, sleeping, maybe going outside, basically — pretty boring. If you’re still in school they give you time to do your schoolwork as well.

The psychiatrist from the hospital had properly medicated me. I was doing decently for a moody 13-year-old. When I got out of the hospital, however, my new psychiatrist told my mom and I, “You have to prove to me she really is bipolar.” So she stopped prescribing my meds to me — which were helping me feel better about myself and life. It all went downhill from there. There were holes in the walls of my room. Broken trinkets would scatter on the floor. I was a mess — still am a little bit.

But if you fast forward to current day (age 18), you will see how much better I have gotten about coping and managing my emotions. Although, I can’t do it all by myself. I have the help of my family, friends, and doctors. Am I happy all the time? No! Of course I’m not. I still get anxious in a loud or crowded area, still get sad, and I still cry.

Being overly emotional and my crying has gotten much better over the years. I have learned how to cope, and I hope you can, too. And last but not least, I am glad I did not die from that overdose, for life is worth living.

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About the Creator

Kim Kohl

Just out here living life with a mental illness.

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