The Year I Found Out I Was Bipolar

The year I found out I was Bipolar

The storm started before I knew it existed, and it all started with a cloud.

One day in September, my sky changed. Instead of the clear blue sky, I noticed a cloud. Just one. I didn’t know at the time that one cloud would become two and then three until they would fill my entire sky with nothing but darkness.

That’s how I slipped into a depressive episode. Except it was scheduled. I had noticed near the start of 2020 that I would fall into a depressive episode every couple of months for two weeks at a time. And at first, I thought nothing different about this episode, because again, it was scheduled. I also never realized it wasn’t normal to have depressive episodes every couple of months, but I digress.

One cloud turned into many when my two-week-long depressive episode progressed. The sky grew darker, and I was afraid. Surely the clouds would pass. Surely this is just a brief rain — you know, the kind that falls heavy for a short time and then clears to show a beautifully painted sky. I thought surely the storm would pass. But it didn’t, and that’s when I knew I needed help.

I always imagine this process as preparing my ship for the storm. I started therapy. I saw a psychiatrist. I started medication. My ship was secure, my sails were set, easy sailing ahead I thought. Except I underestimated the storm. I under-prepared and before I knew it the biggest wave of my life overtook me and I dangled from the side of my ship. Cold. Wet. Terrified.

I held on. I went to therapy; I took my medicine; I reached out to loved ones, and I fought for my life until I couldn’t fight any longer. I couldn’t hold myself up, the weight was too heavy for one person to bear and I sank with the ship. I had a plan. I wrote a letter. I knew the end was near. I didn’t want to be saved. I thought surely I deserved the storm. I deserved the pain. I thought I was done. I was ready to be done. That day would be my last.

Moments before I would take my last breath, my Jesus came walking on the water and He held out his hand for mine. He gave me hope, and I cried for help with all the breath in my lungs. It was dark. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t stop thinking. I needed help. It was all a blur.

I lay alone in an empty hospital room. No cords, no wires, no pillows. Suicide watch. I was afraid. Confused. Sad. I tried to eat, and I distracted myself with tv but then I was taken away to the place that would become my home for the next 7 days.

How did I get here? How did a scheduled depressive episode turn into the biggest storm of my life? Why was I here? I’d be lying if I said it was my first time in a place like that. Instead, it was my 3rd. Suicide watch each time. But it had been 10 years since the last time. Why was this happening to me?

As I shared my history and my recent struggles with the psychiatrist there, I was given the diagnosis of Bipolar 1 and in that moment my entire world changed.

Bipolar disorder wasn’t a mystery to me. My therapist and I had been working through the diagnosis of bipolar II. I just never in a million years thought I’d be diagnosed with Bipolar 1. The bad one. They’re all hard. But bipolar 1. It’s brutal. But I guess I’m biased.

I was equally relieved and terrified. Relieved because suddenly my entire life made sense. The years of inconsistency, being the flaky friend, struggling with jobs, crippling credit card debt, and uncontrollable impulsivity. Suddenly it all made sense. But relief quickly turned to terror when the reality of the battle ahead set in.

I remember pleading with God to let it just be depression and anxiety because in my mind my depression and anxiety hurt less than a life destined for cycles. I think what hurt me the most about the bipolar 1 diagnosis was the realization that it wouldn’t just go away. “How dare hard things exist in my world?”, I said. “I declare a worry-free stress-free life in the name of Jesus,” I said. Hah, what book was my nose stuck in? But again, I digress.

The reality of knowing that I’ll continue to fall into depressive episodes and that I’ll continue to fly into manic ones sunk in and there’s not much I can do about it. Medication helps. And once I find the right ones, I hope to live a happy and stable life. But it takes time. Time to try the medications. Time to identify and avoid triggers. Time to work through childhood trauma. Time and a copious amount of grace. Sometimes I think learning to give myself grace is harder than learning to live with bipolar disorder, but yet again, I digress.

While this journey has been hard. I’ve fallen in love with many parts of it — Like the part where I get to play an active part in my story and the story of others as well. I get to decide to work towards loving myself well. And in loving myself well I get to learn and educate myself so I can help others. This journey has solidified my purpose on this earth because surely God has a plan for me. He wouldn’t have saved my life 3 times for nothing and I know if it came down to it, he’d do it 1000 times over.

I’ve fallen in love with the parts of my illness that allow me to see the world differently. While mania can be scary, there are a lot of beautiful things found there — like creativity. Writing has always been my outlet but man, when I’m manic, writing hits different. Everything hits differently but in the sweetest ways.

I may struggle, but I’ll choose to look at the positives. To my loved ones who are struggling. I see you and I love you. I’m a writer and I don’t even have the words to share the love that I have for you from the depths of my heart. If you feel you’ve reached the end of your rope, please know that Jesus won’t leave you there. He sees you and He’s coming for you. His timing is truly perfect. I saw that firsthand. It was at what I thought was my last moment that He reached out for me. He’ll reach out for you too. You’re not too far gone. Your life has meaning, you have a purpose, and you’re loved beyond measure. Suicide won’t be the end of my story and it won’t be the end of yours either.

Bipolar is a part of my story, but it won’t be my end.