The year was 2009 and I was lying in bed unable to get up and start my day. This had become a problem for me the last morning. The thought of going out of bed, getting dressed for work and let me break out in tears. I was severely depressed. This was not the first time that I had experienced depression, but this was the most extreme. All I could think about was suicide. I wanted to escape the overwhelming feeling of fear and harm.
I took a leave of absence from my job and my aunt was able to keep my children for a few weeks. Summer break was with us as my little breakdown happened at the right time. I thought a break from reality would help that my depression, but I was wrong. After a week still feel I have decided it was time the same way, to find a therapist. I could not stop crying and I wanted someone to pull me out of my crippling depression.
When I finally connected with the right psychiatrist he told me that I was bipolar. But this diagnosis does not come immediately. The first psychiatrist that I spoken with told me that I was just depressed because I had six children. I desperately tried to explain to him that his assessment was wrong. My kids never had the cause of my problems. Do not get me wrong, I my kids drive me crazy sometimes, but she never has to be depressed me. I've always had my worst enemy. My children were the result of what was wrong with me. The psychiatrist, on the other hand, did not agree. He told me that my problems because I do not live up to my expectations of the parents and that was what had me depressed.
I tried to explain to him how absurd what he had said. I was a very independent woman. I had been on my own since the age of seventeen. I was living in a row house, and I had a very good job. My parents admired the qualities that I had. They had long ago that they could not control myself accepted, and while they are not proud that I had so many children without being married, they were proud of how I handled it. I was far away, because of how my parents felt about me and he listened when he knew that I less what anyone thought care have depressed. But still my explanation did not sway his opinion. He had chosen me and that was it. He prescribed me some anti-depression pills and sent me on my way.
His actions caused me to go into a full-on panic attacks. I felt hopeless. It should help me, but he has me. Stereotyped in a box After I left his office I was sitting in my car completely freaked out. I called my therapist and tried to explain to her what had happened. She reassured me and set up another appointment with another psychiatrist. It was the second psychiatrist who diagnosed me as bipolar. I was relieved to find a reason why I was such a mess, but I did not really feel any better, I was going to survive through the rest of my life.
I had always known that something was wrong with me. As a child I was extremely withdrawn and nonchalant. My nickname was "evil", but I was not angry, I was just not interested. As an adult, I had bouts of happiness of relapses of depression. Could not remain constant in my life for too long without getting bored. The boredom would escaping spiral into depression and the depression I had to change something. I would either finish a job, change my hair, change my furniture around, or what else I could change.
I could not bear it if I become a little irritated with him. Irritation for me was a physical thing. I would literally feel like I was going to explode, and I would start feeling like something crawled around on my skin. Soon the tears will would follow. In every situation that had irritated me is stuck unbearable, I would be removed from the irritant.
And that was not the only symptom of bipolar I showed. Once I went into a store to buy bug spray and I came from poorer seventeen hundred dollars. But that was nothing compared to the six thousand dollars, which I once spent a day. I had extreme risk-taking behaviors. Sex, alcohol and shopping was how my danger was displayed. I was twenty-six, with six children. I jumped from job to job and college to college, specializing in different things.
I had moved nineteen times in the span of a few years. In my early twenties I drank a pint of gin per day. My danger was to be raped me twice and an abusive relationship. I constantly put into dangerous situations, and I loved to play with fire. I would do what I do not want to do but I could not stop myself. I could not be faithful and I could not be consistent. I had zero control over my life and the life began to heavily on me.
I myself use drugs with alcohol to calm my nerves and me less irritable. Alcohol helped things more tolerable. The nervousness anxiety was gone when I had a few drinks. I was less indifferent to people and would be friendly. It also helped me sleep better at night. But alcohol had its side effects. I never had only one drink, and that in itself was a problem. Another problem with the use of alcohol, was to treat yourself that my alcohol made risky side that much more risky. And although while I drank less irritable when I became irritated I would tear. Fortunately, that has not happen often. I was pretty quiet when I drank.
The bipolar diagnosis was not correct insight, but it has to change or nothing. The worst part about the diagnosis was that I said that I was a person who went through periods of extreme creativity, but it was just my mind playing tricks on me. I felt stupid and it opened my eyes to the fact that many people do not take me seriously. And while it is true that I have bouts of creativity, that whatever they were, they were just bouts.
No matter how good were my ideas, I would never complete. This was part of my illness she told me. But what I could never understand was exactly what they meant. Am I able to use all these wonderful creative things I dream or are they just dreams? Will I ever win the discipline necessary to be able to follow through or I'll always be another example of a person who remain bipolar?...
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