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Acceptance

My Story

By Katherine JeanPublished 6 years ago 7 min read
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I am sitting here in this quiet, dark, house, sipping my coffee after just having gotten up and getting my daughter off to school with sleep in my eyes and pain in my heart.

So much pain.

I have been having fits of nostalgia on and off over the past few weeks, I have been yearning for a time in which I can no longer live in, because it no longer exists. The present is a one way trip, I can never return to my previous destination. With this realization in my head; oh my heart, it breaks. The slow deterioration of my mental health over the years has brought but one solemn and awakening forethought to my ever changing, forever racing mind.

I can no longer continue to deny what is my humbling and somewhat frightening truth. If I ever wish to move forward and make the permanent changes that must be made, it has to begin with my reluctant acceptance.

Here I am, 17 years old, eight long years ago, sitting in a vehemently uncomfortable chair in the first of many psychiatrists' offices that I will be visiting over the course of the next several years, hearing the words I never wanted to hear, least of all, accept:

“I believe you are bipolar.”

No, I’m not crazy, I’m depressed.

“I did not say you were crazy, individuals with bipolar disorder are not crazy. Bipolar, simply put, means that your severe mood swings between mania and depression will have an adverse effect on your thought processes and behaviors if left untreated. Now, there are a few methods we can try to...”

I’M NOT BIPOLAR! I’m fucking sad! I struggle with depression, like my dad did. I am NOT fucking crazy, I am NOT bipolar. You only think that because when I’m not wanting to kill myself, I’m actually really enjoying my life and embracing my awesomeness. There’s nothing wrong with that.

“Ms. Doolittle, I truly believe that your thoughts and behaviors in the duration of your upswing are greatly influenced by what we call ‘mania’, meaning yes, you are no longer ‘sad’ in the text book sense, however, you are elevated to the point where it could be all too easy for you to lose your grip on reality if you do not take care of this issue properly. Again, I have no reason to believe you are ‘crazy.’ You have a mood disorder, one that you can not stop or control, you should neither feel crazy, nor be embarrassed by my diagnosis. Please do not surrender to a stigma which may keep you from feeling your best. Now, there are several options that I believe will greatly help you. Are you willing to discuss them?”

No. I’m not bipolar.

“Very well, we can get you started on an antidepressant. I would like for you to come back to see me in six weeks, so we can discuss any changes or further action in your recovery. Would you be willing to do that?”

Yeah, sure, whatever.

I did not go back. I wish I would have.

From that moment on, I never again was honest with a psychiatrist, a loved one, or myself about what really went on in my head. The fear of judgement and misunderstanding from others imprisoned my truth and I buried it in the deepest catechism I could fathom for it, to the point where I had even convinced myself that it was not so. How could it be? I’m not crazy. Crazy people don’t go to school, or have jobs, or make friends and get drunk at a bar. They don’t go out dancing, or fall in love, or drive around in cars. I was doing all those things, I was living life. Crazy people sit in a padded room rocking back and forth believing they are Beyoncé while wrapped up in a straight jacket. I was just living.

And I was right.

No, I am not crazy; I am bipolar.

I do have extreme mood swings that effect my day to day thoughts, words and actions, regarding my work, my relations, and myself. I do think and act irrationally at times and inadvertently self-destruct all the while, feeling indestructible. I swing from missing old friends and family that I’ve pushed away, to hating them because how DARE they do ME wrong? I go from being overtly empathetic, endearing, compassionate, and generous, to extremely selfish, condescending, and narcissistic within a matter a months, weeks, and sometimes, days.

My mood is like a magic act:

Now I’m the shit…

Poof

Now I’m not.

There is no in-between, if there is, the feeling is brief and fleeting. There’s little to nothing I can do to maintain a healthy and realistic balance of the two. I believe anyone who has ever interacted with me for longer than a day is agreeing with this notion. I accept this now, I am slowly beginning to understand it.

But oh, my heart; it breaks.

It breaks because I know that this means that my peers will think, judge, and speak on me differently. It breaks because I know there are people who will never understand that I’m still a real and functioning human being, it breaks because now, my true emotions and the words I speak on them will be automatically invalidated by some because they will chalk it up to me just being irrational. My heart breaks because there will STILL be people who think I’m over reacting or fabricating for attention, and I can somehow magically turn it off if I really wanted to. And it breaks because I can still hear the screams of an abusive ex, ringing in my ears:

Crazy bipolar bitch.

Crazy bipolar bitch.

Crazy bipolar bitch.

Thrown in my face, over and over again. The thoughts trickling into the forefront of my mind that maybe he was right all along. The guilt I feel now knowing that I do, in fact, make it extremely hard to love me because of this diagnosis, while all this time blaming other people for my behavior.

This, is an epiphany of overwhelming proportions. What does it mean for me? For my future? For my daughter? For my relationships? Will I ever have my mind under control? Will I ever be normal?

The answer is, I don’t know.

What I do know, is that at the end of the day, all I want, is to feel better, to be better, to do better. That is never going to happen if I do not accept my truth and begin the journey to learn, grow, and heal. My deepest wish, is to be understood, though I do have the capacity to tolerate hate or ignorance, the vulnerability I am feeling now makes me want to hide under a rock and never emerge again. The stigma with any mental illness is heavy and, for the time being, unchanging, but it sure is a lot easier to explain to people that you have to take antidepressants than it is to explain to them that you have to take anti-psychotics, which is what they prescribe to counter the symptoms of people with bipolar disorder. That’s what they prescribe for people like me, and I fear that I will forever be known as that “crazy bitch” because of this stigma. I fear that people will never want to give me a chance, or get to know me because that will always be in the back of their heads.

And oh my heart, it breaks.

Acceptance is never easy, but it is necessary. I will find a way to hold my head high as I try to bravely make my way through this life which has dealt me a difficult hand.

That’s all I can do.

bipolar
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About the Creator

Katherine Jean

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