Actually, it does define me.

I get it. I used to work with children that have autism. For years, I worked with adults that had autism as well as many other developmental disabilities. Their disability did not define them. I did not see Frank, the man with down syndrome. Instead I saw Frank, the man who enjoyed practical jokes and loved to work on the janitorial team. Linda was not Autism. Linda instead was a sweetheart who loved to hold my hand and would always offer me to come inside for tea when I dropped her off at home. These people were so much more than their diagnosis. The outside world saw them for their diagnosis, and instead of seeing them as people, they saw them for their low IQ, temper, symptoms and disorders.

But for me? I see myself as bipolar.

There is a sharp debate on whether you should say "I HAVE bipolar" or "I AM bipolar".

I do not simply have bipolar. Bipolar is not in addition to me and who I am. I am not Sarah with Bipolar. I am Bipolar Sarah.

So much of the disorder effects my mood (duh), interests, hobbies, temperament, and overall personality that it is not a simple addition to who I am. Instead, it is intertwined with who I am as a person. Without Bipolar would I be a writer? Would I be the almost comical sensitive person who is touchy and quick to startle? I don't know. I could be, I guess. I could simply be a sensitive person who is anxious all the time who enjoys writing and photography. But having bipolar has absolutely influenced my personality. It has absolutely defined where I ebb and flow, what my quirks are and what my perks are.

While working with my clients I saw past their disorder and knew that they were a person, not a diagnosis. For myself, I see past my disorder and I know that I am a person, not simply a diagnosis. However, I do see myself as massively influenced by bipolar which is why I feel that bipolar does a great deal of defining who I am as a person. I may have laid the ground work on my own, but bipolar is what has caused me to be so extreme in some areas that otherwise would not have been.

I am bipolar. I do not simply have it, like a swollen toe or asthma. Diabetes, cancer, high blood pressure are all diagnosis which are life altering but as a whole they do not effect your personality. They do not influence the way you think, the way you live, the way you act. Your diabetes does not cause you to be obsessed with a new project for days straight. High blood pressure does not cause you to become low and depressed for weeks on end.

Bipolar is a disorder of the mind. My personality comes from my mind. So of course Bipolar defines my mind. Of course it defines who I am, how I act and what I want.

I am not ONLY bipolar. I am many other things as well. But I absolutely AM bipolar. I do not simply carry it around like a purse. It influences everything about me.

The Perks of Potty Training

For a few years now, you have been your baby's personal butler and nurse. As they transition from baby to toddler, you also transition from bottle provider to snack provider and from diaper changer to pee-pee reminder. While the transition from baby to child can bring sadness and grief of the baby that once was, the transition to an actual child brings a lot of perks. Along with eventually buckling their own seatbelt and washing their own hair comes the greatest baby-to-kid transition of all: potty training.

Now, potty training in itself can be quite stressful. Changing poopy diapers turns into dealing with poopy Spider-Man undies but the transition is long awaited for many parents. We all count down the day when we no longer financially support the Huggies brand. I just breezed past the diaper aisle the other day and didn't even glance down it. Seven years of babies and I am now ignoring that aisle completely, because I can. That is a glorious feeling.

However, In the midst of potty training, there are great perks which you won't find anywhere else. Hopefully, it is a short phase and you quickly move on to having a child that deals with their own shit for once. But during that time period you get special privileges that are not found in diaper days or once your child is house trained like a German Shepherd. Let me explain:

1. I, myself, have been potty trained for quite some time. While it is now an everyday occurrence, it is still an unsung achievement of mine. As a mom, I do many things throughout the day that rarely receive recognition or a mere “thank you”. I am simply expected to do them and the tasks themselves are only noticed when they are not done. With a potty training toddler, I now have a personal cheerleader who accompanies me to the jon. Not only do I receive a round of applause when I complete the task at hand, but I also get immediate verbal praise by way of “Good job mommy, you big girl!”. Finally, some recognition for once. And you're right, Mommy IS a big girl. Thank you.
2. Along with a musical miniature potty and flushable wipes, potty training also brings a ground-breaking item into your bathroom: a stool. Not only does it serve it’s purpose as a one-step access to the big throne and ease dangling toddler legs, but it also gives you the extra six inches to reach the high shelf in your linen cabinet that has been neglected since you shoved the blankets up there last April. Most importantly though, the stool can be used when you are having your own visit to the bathroom. Medical professionals recommend placing a small stool beneath your feet when going numero dos. The added height to your feet places less strain on your big intestine making the process easier with less struggle and strain. Less strain means less hemorrhoids and I think we’ve all had more than our fair share of those during pregnancy. So use the luxurious stool ladies, you’ll never view bowel movements the same again.
3. Toddlers in the midst of potty training have grasped the concept that they are supposed to relieve themselves into a toilet instead of their pants, however they are not too good at holding it. When a little voice peeps up “Mommy, I go pee-pee?”, you have 7.3 seconds to get that kiddo to a toilet before all hell breaks loose. While the rest of us seasoned potty-users can hold our pee-pee until we find an acceptable and accessible facility, toddlers in potty-training boot camp must have access to a toilet at all times. As life continues during this training, you may find yourself at a business that has a red CAPITALIZED sign shouting EMPLOYEES ONLY on the door of their bathroom. While some businesses guard their bathroom like Taylor Swift’s dressing room and others have accessible public bathrooms, all businesses have one thing in common: none of them want tinkle sprinkles in their foyer. So while the receptionist may glare and point to the EMPLOYEES ONLY sign if you ask to use the facilities while out and about, no one (and I mean no one) will deny bathroom access to a potty-training toddler doing the potty dance. Think of it as a backstage pass. Usually under lock-and-key, you are suddenly given access to the backstage bathroom. Enjoy the sights and potpourri smells of off-limit bathrooms, this is really a once in a lifetime opportunity.
4. Trying to teach a toddler to use a potty can be very stressful. Along with the frustration, comes added laundry because going through three pairs of pants a day is actually considered a good day. Then, you also have the 15-minute schedule set by alarm which interrupts every single thing you are doing all day long. The chiming of the alarm going off becomes so consistent, that as soon as it starts, your toddler heads towards the bathroom. The mexican-hat-dance ringtone will forever signal to your child that it’s time to go potty (for psychological fun, start playing the ringtone around them when they are school aged and watch them cluck like a chicken as they head towards the bathroom). Potty training is stressful, it’s messy and it is just downright chaotic. So when the PTA President contacts you to host the bake sale this coming Wednesday night, you can confidently say absolutely not. Why? Because you are potty training your toddler, that’s why. And without even missing a beat, the Prez will smile and say she completely understands because she had to do it with her kids too. Every parent understands the hold on life that is created when you are in the middle of potty training and no matter the obligation or project, you have a perfect built in guilt-free excuse that every parent understands and does not object because we have all been there before and we all get it. So sit back and enjoy the mexican-hat-dance.
5. The greatest perk to potty training your child is seeing them transition from a baby to a “big boy” within a matter of days (or weeks..). When they laid out spread eagle on the living room floor waiting for you to deal with the mess in their pants, they were a baby, no matter if they were three months old or thirty-six months old. Once they begin to take themselves to the bathroom, wipe their own butts and return to the table as if nothing magical had happened, they are officially no longer a baby in your eyes. The change is dramatic. You no longer have to lug around a suitcase full of wipes and diapers, you no longer have to worry if that stinky child in the room is your own. Gone are the days of having to do a sneak-peak into their shorts and say goodbye to finding a changing table in a busy airport. Just like that, your baby transforms into a kid. No transition is more astonishing, exciting or anticipated as potty training. The level-up from baby to kid is officially complete and right before your tired eyes your child is growing up. You may cry a bit, but be sure to wipe away your tears with the money you’ve saved by no longer buying diapers.

PANIC!

"Most patients who have bipolar disorder have a coexisting anxiety disorder. These include generalized anxiety disorder (GAD), social phobia, panic disorder, and PTSD." The Anxious Bipolar Patient, Psychiatric Times

Having a coexisting anxiety disorder is almost expected, it seems. I have read that having a coexisting, or "comorbid", anxiety disorder is nearly a rule in the diagnosis of Bipolar, specifically Bipolar II. As if us 2's don't have enough to worry about already.

Having Generalized Anxiety Disorder is pretty miserable. If I were to separate each symptom of Bipolar, and include GAD as a symptom itself, I would say that GAD affects me more than anything. If I had to mark an X on a calendar for every day that I struggled with anxiety, I would have 365 X's. 

It's hard to explain, really. There is a scene in the movie Home Alone where the mom is sitting on the plane and she says "Oh my gosh, did we turn off the coffee pot?" Yes, she is assured. "Did we close the garage, what about the garage?" Yes, that was done as well. Of course, this is not a direct quote but you get the idea.

Now imagine feeling that way all the time. Every day. Are the tires going to go flat? I have a cough, am I getting the flu? What if a sink hole forms in the exact spot I am sitting?

My heart hyperventilates. I hyperventilate. My thoughts swirl around in my head and create a vortex of "what if's" with the worst case scenario always looming as a possibility. Sometimes it is manageable. Sometimes it is triggered by an event, situation, conversation or something simple, like a newspaper article. I worry and worry and worry. I work myself into what I call a "mini panic attack". Essentially, the point where I should be breathing into a paper bag. But instead I am trying to ignore it and work through it. Sometimes, this progresses into an actual panic attack. It feels like I am breathing through a straw. It feels like I am having a heart attack. I feel like I am dying and someone should call an ambulance.

Vomit. 

Conversations and socializing.

Being out of routine.

Surprises.

These are all things that make me PANIC! in a very bad way. It's exhausting.

Anxiety is exhausting. I wish I could just relax. I wish I wasn't such a "worry wart". But I am. I worry about everything that I make myself sick. But I guess I don't make myself sick. My anxiety makes me sick. And I am sick and tired of it. It has plagued me since I was 4. I remember having mini panic attacks at night on my bed after everyone else in the house had fallen asleep and I felt all alone. I would cry and wish for it to be morning so I didn't have to be so scared and alone.  There were many, many sleepless nights when I was young. I slept with my parents until I was 7. And even once they started to lock their bedroom door, I would sleep in the hall. Not because I wanted to sleep with them, but because I couldn't relax unless I was next to them. I couldn't sleep without knowing they were right there. So I slept in the hall, or their bedroom floor for years.

Anxiety is a bitch. A cold hearted bitch.

Where do I begin?

When I realized I had Bipolar Disorder, a light bulb switched on. After all these years, everything made sense. My quirks and approach to life had a medical reason. All those times I would devote my life to a project or cause, to then walk away a few days later with no emotion, had a medical cause. All of my questions about myself were answered. I finally knew why I had panic attacks, why social situations made my heart hyperventilate, why I had struggled with waves of depression since the 6th grade. My dozens of issues all fit nicely and neatly in a bag titled "Bipolar Disorder Type II". The comorbidity of an anxiety disorder with Bipolar is extremely high (over 85%) so all of my anxieties were explained as well. Everything made sense.

But it left me with one question: Where does Bipolar end, and I begin? If my quirks are bipolar. If my habits and overall demeanor, my sensitive nature, overly emotional reactions and my anxious personality are all attributed to a mental health disorder, then who is genuinely Sarah?

If I list out all of my most prominent personality traits in bullet points, and then cross off each bullet point that is a bipolar symptom, I would have essentially nothing left to attribute to my own personality.

Furthermore, and most troubling, is my ability and desire to write. I began writing when I was in junior high. I have always kept journals, written poetry and written short stories. For a time, I wrote for a newspaper, I have written and composed countless newsletters and short magazines and here I am writing again in this blog. There is a very strong link between creativity/intelligence and mental illnesses, particularly, Bipolar Disorder.

So, my most valued trait, my ability and love of writing, is present only because I have Bipolar Disorder? The very thing that has allowed me to pass school, express my severe emotions, and has paved my path in life, is essentially a symptom of a mental illness I posses?

Where do I begin? What is not attributed to Bipolar? Some would argue that my having Bipolar is simply who I am, and there is no need or purpose to attempt to separate myself from it. It simply is, and I simply am. But even then, I wonder who I would be, and what I would do, if I did not have Bipolar?

My quirks and eccentritism, writing, sensitive nature, anxious demeanor and overall personality is a result of having Bipolar II. Bipolar is who I am. I have read many articles demanding that "Bipolar does not define me" and "I am not Bipolar, I HAVE Bipolar" but I personally disagree. My Bipolar is who I am. It is my personality. It is my goals. It is my fears. It is my anxieties. It is my nightmares. It is me. Where do I begin? I begin with Bipolar.

The trick however, is to not allow it to rule me. While having Bipolar absolutely defines who I am, I have to control it in the way you would control a horse. The sporadic and wild nature of it will require my control. Sarah may begin with Bipolar, but it is up to me to control the sails and ride the waves with confidence and control.

That one time that I _________

Monday, February 22, 2016 1:30pm

That one time that I became so sad that I wanted to die.

That one time that the sadness became so deep that I wanted to die.

That one time that the thoughts became so repetitious that I couldn't stop them.

That one time that I really, really, really wanted to die.

That one time that I walked into a psychiatric hospital.

That one time that I signed myself in to the crisis unit.

That one time that I told them my plan.

That one time that I watched them lock the door.

That one time that I handed over my belongings.

That one time that I sat on a cot in a near empty room.

That one time that I sat in isolation.

That one time that I wept, bawled and sobbed in isolation.

That one time that I became sadder, more scared, and more depressed.

That one time that I counted the tiles on the floor (there were 108).

That one time that I watched The Sisterhood of The Traveling Pants.

That one time that I buried my head in the blankets once the lights turned off.

That one time that my heart broke. And broke again. And again.

That one time that I cried all of my tears.

That one time that I cried alone for hours.

That one time that I never saw a therapist or doctor.

That one time that I was expected to sit in isolation for 23 hours.

That one time that I only made it to 8 hours.

That one time that I decided I would leave even though I felt worse.

That one time that I told them I just wanted to go home.

That one time that I lied and said I no longer wanted to die.

That one time that I, in fact, did want to die.

That one time that being there felt like I was slowly dying from sadness.

That one time.

Once.

Never again.

Listen

I sat on the kitchen floor.

Four days ago, I had an idea. I was going to run a business. I researched for hours. I hadn't slept in four days. I applied for loans to finance my business. I decided on a name. I began writing a business proposal. My business idea was revolutionary. I was going to change the world. My idea was genius. I didn't sleep. I barely ate. I paced the floor and told my husband over and over and over about my ideas, repeating the same sentences and jumbling together my words. I had to keep talking. I had to keep telling him. I hopped up and down on the porch and grinned from ear to ear. I was going to be famous. My idea was incredible. I was unstoppable. I skipped three days of work. I skipped three days of classes. It didn't matter. I was going to be famous. I didn't need that job. My degree was pointless.

And then suddenly, after hours of research and writing and obsessing, it stopped.

Just like that.

I blinked, and every ounce of creativity, desire, excitement and determination, had left.

In rolled the fog of depression. My familiar foe that had haunted me since I could remember. By mid-afternoon, I was sitting on the kitchen floor counting the minutes until my husband came home from work. I wanted to kill myself. I couldn't think of a way to painlessly do it. Knives sounded like a good idea, but isn't that usually not final? We didn't have any pills except regular cabinet medications. There was nowhere in the house strong enough to support my hanging body.

So I sat on the kitchen floor and waited.

*****************

"Honey, I think you are bipolar." He said as he handed me his phone.

"What? No I'm not." I rolled my eyes.

"No, read this. This is you." And he shoved the phone in my face.

Bipolar Type II. The article listed symptoms. I read them. And I read them again. And again.

My heart thumped. I began to sweat. I clicked on another link, and another. I read articles and lists of symptoms and personal accounts. In detective novels, there is a moment where the lead detective discovers a key piece of evidence that suddenly solves the crime. In that moment, he gasps and says "Oh my god" as he realizes the truth.

"Oh my god", I gasped, like a detective. "That's me! This is me!" I began to cry. And I read more articles and links with each one I saw myself more and more. The depression. The obsessions. The "intermittent ADHD", the obsessive cleaning, the writing, the delusions, the sleepless nights, the days that I couldn't get out of bed.

The more I read, the more I realized that this has been me all along. My whole life. My phobia to vomit, my severe anxiety, all of it was connected and intertwined.

"What do I do?" I asked. I had been researching all day. It was dark.

"I don't know. Go see a doctor I guess." He hugged me.

****************

"Have you been feeling excessively sad, every day, all day, for longer than a two week period?" She asked. The lights were dim. She yawned. Her computer screen was turned away from me. She didn't make eye contact.

"Yes." I said. With each question, I lost faith. I had waited four days for this assessment.

"Have you lost interest in activities, lost desire to complete school, work or household duties?" She yawned and stared at her computer screen.

"Yes, but sometimes I become obsessive." I said. I had to save this appointment. I had to do something.

She looked at me and raised her eye brow. "Four more questions", she said, and clicked her mouse.

The questions continued. I knew them by heart. Yes, because I had gone through this same depression questionnaire countless times with other therapists, but also because I knew them by heart. The list of symptoms was memorized because my heart felt these symptoms over and over again.

"That's it." She said as she clicked her mouse. "You seem to be experiencing some depression. I will schedule you with a doctor to begin medication."

That can't be it. There has to be more.

"That's it?", I asked. "There aren't more questions?"

Her computer powered down and she stood up, gathering her jacket and purse. It had been an hour. She yawned.

"What do you mean?" She said as she began to open the office door.

"There should be more questions. Sometimes there are other things. Sometimes I am so hyper I can't sleep. I think I might be bipolar."

She raised her eye brows and sat her purse on the chair.

"Do you abuse drugs?"

"Well, no..."

"Have you ever been arrested?"

"No, of course not."

"Have you ever done anything dangerous or spontaneous?" She asked, picking up her purse again.

"Well, once I drove to the ocean in the middle of the night."

She opened the office door and said "That's not that unusual. Bipolar is very obvious. You've never been arrested. You aren't a drug user." She headed down the hallway. "Let's get you set up with a doctor so you can begin a medication regimen."

**************

I sat in the waiting room. A woman next to me rocked and moaned in her chair. Every few rocks she would whimper. I wondered what the doctor would look like. My stomach was in knots. I had waited two months to see him. This time, they would listen to me. Whoever this doctor is, they would listen to me.

I made sure they would listen, I would force them to. I had spent an hour the day before listing out my symptoms. It was two pages long. I included my history, the anxiety at age 4, the depression at age 11. The business ideas, the noises I heard that weren't there, the hypersexuality, the delusions, the sleepless nights. I had the stapled papers folded neatly in my purse. I would make the doctor read the list. I would make him listen.

"Sarah?" An old man poked his head through the door. I smiled and followed him. He left behind a trail of cigarette smoke smell as we walked down the hallway.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, I am a very busy person." He said as he entered his office.

I sat down in the chair across from his desk. "It's fine," I smiled.

"Well, what are we here for, depression?"

I swallowed. "Well, yes and no."

"What do you mean?" He asked with his eyebrows raised.

"Well, I really don't believe that I just have depression. The woman I saw before you did an assessment for depression, which I have, which I have ALWAYS had, but I think there is something else going on."

He sighed and logged in to his computer. After a few moments he said "Well here it shows your diagnosis as Major Depressive Disorder."

"I know", I said. "But I really don't believe that's accurate. I started having anxiety when I was four and sometimes I don't sleep and..." I stopped. I pulled out my list. "Will you please read this?" I handed over the list. I was shaking.

He sighed, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "You're really overestimating my reading capabilities" he said as he leaned forward and snatched the paper.

His eyes scanned the pages. He flipped the first page and quickly moved on to the next.

"Do you have a criminal record?"

"No." I said.

"Do you abuse drugs?"

"No. Well, I do smoke marijuana."

"How often?" He asked as he handed the papers back to me.

"Once a day."

He scooted his chair back towards the desk and folded his hands. "Well, this could all be attributed to drug use. Do your relatives have mental health problems?"

"Drug use? I just started smoking three years ago. I've been this way my whole life." I sighed. "My biological father left when I was an infant. But my mom said he had severe bipolar, as did his brother and father."

"Any hospital visits, what medication was he taking?"

I was growing frustrated. He wasn't listening to me. I wasn't being listened to again. "I have no idea. Again, he left when I was an infant. He is a stranger and I know nothing about him."

He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. "Listen," he said, "Your symptoms could be due to drug use. I have patients come in all the time that complain about hallucinations but pop positive for amphetamines. You have no criminal record. Your history is irrelevant because I don't have any documentation to prove it. Your mother believing your father had bipolar is irrelevant because you can't tell me what medications he was taking. I don't know what you expected when you came in here. I am not a magician. I can't prescribe some magic pill to make you happy with your life."

I was shocked. "How is all that irrelevant?" I stammered. "I'm not asking for a magic pill. I am happy with my life. I am very happy with my life."

"Have you ever been hospitalized for a manic episode?" He said.

"Well, I"

"Yes, or no", he interrupted my explanation.

"No", I said as I slumped in my chair.

His brow furrowed. I could tell he was getting angry. "I think you have a personality problem. And you are emotionally immature. There aren't pills to fix that. What I can give you is the lowest dose of an anti-depressant and then I will see you in three months. Please close the door on your way out."

*************

"Hello, may I speak to Sarah?"

"This is her," I said into the phone.

"Hi Sarah. My name is Allison. I am a clinician for the dual-diagnostics program. I was hoping to schedule an appointment with you."

"Dual-what? What's that?"

"Dual-Diagnostics. It is a program for people that have mental health problems and struggle with drug use."

"But I don't do drugs. Unless you count coffee, now THAT I am addicted to."

She laughed, "Okay, let me pull up your file. You were referred to me."

After a few moments she said, "It shows here that you have Major Depressive Disorder and Cannabis Dependency?"

"What? Dependency? I do smoke marijuana but I'm not addicted."

"Okay, how often?" She said.

"Once a day, maybe. Depends." I said.

"Alright, I wonder why the listed you as dependent then." She said. "So you are experiencing depression?"

"Well, yes, But that's not all. It's so much more complicated than that." I said.

"What do you mean? What else is going on?", she asked.

And I told her. I listed out the symptoms of Bipolar Type II not because they were listed, but because they were what I experienced. She asked me questions, she asked for examples. We scheduled an appointment for the next day. I didn't have to wait anymore.

**************

"Hello", she said. Her smile was infectious. She reminded me of honey and rainbows. She seemed like the type of person that liked to give a lot of hugs.

I sat down in the chair in her office. On the walls were encouraging quotes, pictures of mountains. She had a bookshelf full of books that were titled with psychology related words. She smiled.

"So where were we?", she said.

"Well, on the phone we were talking about my symptoms. I know I have depression. I really don't want to talk about depression. I am tired of talking about depression. I know the symptoms by heart because I have all of them. But I really feel like I have something else going on."

She listened to me. I told her about my "intermittent adhd", the delusions. the noises, the obsessions, the outbursts, the anxiety, the panic attacks. And she listened.

We spent the next few days, over the course of three appointments, discussing my symptoms in depth. She pulled books out of her bookshelf and read passages to me to see if I could relate to the descriptions. She quizzed me about symptoms for disorders I had never heard of, which I didn't relate to at all. I didn't count my steps. I didn't hear voices. I didn't challenge authority. Each symptom we discussed would circle back around to one disorder: Bipolar Type II.

"So, it appears that you are suffering from Bipolar Type II and you have been for a very long time." She said. "You have every symptom, more than required for diagnosis. So I am going to update your diagnosis, okay?" She smiled.

She pointed to the computer screen. "There, see?" Listed below my name was "Bipolar Type II/Generalized Anxiety Disorder". I smiled.

"I wanted to tell you something, but I don't want you to take this the wrong way. Let me think of how to put this without offending you." She said as she sat in her chair quietly.

"Ok," she said. "So I think the problem is you come off as much much higher functioning than you are. You are pleasant, friendly, very well spoken, educated and you appear to be very well adjusted. You are much lower functioning than you appear and it only becomes apparent after talking to you for a while. I think that's why you have had such a hard time getting people to listen to you because you appear to be just fine." She paused.

"I think this is from suffering for so long and your desire to hide your symptoms. You were not raised in a mentally supportive time period so you trained yourself to hide your symptoms and pretend to be normal. I think this is why you have had a hard time getting help. Of course, this does not excuse the doctor's behavior with you, but it might explain why people have not listened to you. You appear to be fine, but you are not." She smiled. "I think it would be a good idea to set up another appointment with the doctor with this new diagnosis to be sure you are receiving the correct medication. Also, lets get you set up with weekly therapy appointments with me. What is a good day for you?"

****************

My appointment was at ten. It was 10:45 and I had not been called in yet. Finally, the old man poked his head through the door. "Sarah?" he asked. I followed him down the hall. "I am a very important person here, hence the delay", he said.

We arrived to his office. He didn't sit down. Neither did I.

"Why are you here? I saw you three weeks ago. Is there a problem?"

I was shaking. I was terrified.

"Well", I said. "I have been thoroughly assessed by a therapist and she and I believe that I have Bipolar Type II. Her recommendation was to follow-up with you to ensure that my prescribed medication would work with this more accurate diagnosis."

"Who is this that you saw?"

"Allison Lastname", I said.

"Well, I am much more qualified than her. As you can see from the degrees on my wall, I am an expert and she is not at all. I have already prescribed your medication, it has only been three weeks. I am an experienced professional and I do not agree with that diagnosis at all. I suggest you leave my office and find another doctor that will be willing to work with you because I am not willing to work with you."

I didn't say anything. I was trembling.

"Leave my office."

I held back my tears until the waiting room where I filled out a request to change doctors.

******************

Allison told me she was proud of me for seeing the doctor again, for the last time. She congratulated my courage and determination. She listened to me again. I found a new doctor to see, and each week I also meet with Allison as I begin to heal.

Allison listened to me and that was all that I wanted. Just listen to me.

Lazy

Depression brings the desire to do nothing. Not out of laziness, but out of a lack of motivation to live. Getting out of bed, taking out the trash, making a phone call just seems impossible. My poor self talk punishes me.

Loser.
Idiot.
Moron.
Big fucking baby.

These basic tasks which consume my to-do list often get done anyways, but then I reflect on the fact that I "only" got out bed and took the trash out.

What a waste of a day.
What a waste of a life.

This internal turmoil is private and in my head. On the outside, I appear lazy? Fighting the flu? On the inside, I feel like I am dying.

And the trash bin is 45 steps further than none, which is precisely too far. But I still take out the trash after two hours of beating myself up.

And then I reflect on how I managed to "only" take out the trash.

My therapist has told me "Being lazy and unmotivated are not the same thing". She said to type it up and hang it on my bedroom door.

I feel lazy. I feel like my day is wasted. My life is wasted. Men and women are overseas fighting for my freedom. Cancer patients. Parapelegic. Trauma. And then there is me.

Taking out the trash feels like "too much". And it is a self-created "too much" which is, as a matter of fact, all in my head.

My type of Bipolar

The depression started when I was 11. In the evening, it was the worst. I would quietly cry, knowing that bedtime was soon. The smiling, galloping people on the television screen would grind the pain deeper. I wished I would gallop like they did. Laughing and smiling. But instead, the oil filled me. Like a fog, it rolled in slowly. It would start with just a twinge of pain, and slowly over the course of the day, the fog would become thicker and thicker. My daily school agenda would be full of down arrows. Sad faces. The fog grew darker and more complex as I got older. I would tread water in an ocean of guilt and shame. I would wish that I could disappear out of thin air. My will to live would escape me. If I were an infant, I would die for "failure to thrive". And thrive, I did not.

My dreams fell away. My hope floated away. My ambitions became pointless. My success meaningless. I had no one. I had nothing. I was alone. The days become endless repetition with pointless tasks. The light at the end of the tunnel had been turned off. I don't want to see tomorrow, or the next day. All I want to do is sleep for a thousand years. Sleep is the only reprieve. Twelve to fifteen hours a night of sweet sleep. Once I drag my heavy body out of bed, I would force myself to shower so my outward appearance didn't match my inside emotions. Standing under the shower head, I would daydream about dismantling a shaving razor and cutting my thighs, slicing them over and over.

The shame would run ferociously through every canal of my mind. Shame for not being happy. Shame for not being a good mom. Shame for my husband having to deal with me. Shame for feeling shame.

Along side shame, guilt would flow with force. Guilt for being a burden. Guilt for occupying valuable space. Guilt for dragging everyone into my mental mess. Guilt for feeling guilty.

The day would grow into the night and again, I would see the happy people on TV. Each tv commercial brought smiles and fields of joy. Now however, I go to bed early knowing that the sweet relief of sleep will release the pressure of the pain. If only that sleep would last forever.

The depression comes in waves and always has. It lasts for weeks at a time, anywhere from 2 to 6. The fact that there is a time limit has always brought me comfort. Knowing that it will end at some point, "this too, shall pass", has always been a comfort. No matter how bad it gets, it will suddenly stop one day. The fog will lift. I will feel it in my toes first, then my heart. I will feel normal. The weight of the world will melt away and I will feel ok.

Every now and then however, I will have a feeling of butterflies fluttering around in my body. What I used to joke about as "intermittent ADHD". Sometimes, I will become irritable with everything around me. The ceiling fan clicks too loud. The leaf blower in the neighborhood makes me want to scream. I pull my wind chimes down. I can't take the sounds of the world.

Other times, the butterflies are full of ENERGY. I clean and organize and cook and craft and plan and create and believe and dream and I CAN FLY. I will write a book! I will start a business! I will become a lawyer! I will be an artist! I am a genius! I know the meaning of life. I know the purpose of the world. I can feel God, he is right there. I am SO HAPPY. Sleep? Who needs sleep! There is too much to do, too much to accomplish! I will volunteer and commit and plan and promise. I will pack my schedule with events and appointments and I will survive on small bites of food.

I make eye contact with everyone I walk past because I know they all want me to. They all want to talk to me, who wouldn't? A professor, coworker, supervisor, friend or neighbor is secretly in love with me. I move to the front of the class, become full of ideas that will REVOLUTIONIZE the company. I sign up to be a troop leader for Girl Scouts with the intent of revolutionizing the entire American organization of Girl Scouts. I.WILL.SUCCEED. I am a genius. I am brilliant.

I wear flowing skirts and flowers in my hair and know the men will ogle me. I wave to my neighbors that I've never talked to before, I socialize with anyone that approaches me. I am funny. Pleasant. Optimistic. Unstoppable.

And then, the drain is pulled. The curtains are drawn. My energy flows away. My obsessions are stopped. My plans are abandoned. I stop attending school. I call in "with car trouble" at work. I pull the blankets over my head and I dream about sleeping forever and never waking up. The familiar fog rolls in again.

Up and down. Off and on. Over and over and over and over, forever and ever, amen.

Questioning my Diagnosis

I frequent a forum for Bipolar Disorder. I usually read the entries daily and rarely respond. I find comfort reading that others are struggling like I am. So I read their struggles knowing that I can relate to how they feel. It is comforting, after feeling so alone for so long, to find others that are just like me.

One topic is brought up time and time again. Over and over. In my own mind, but also in the minds of others.

"What if I am not Bipolar? What if I am making this all up for attention? What if I really am in control of my moods and behaviors but I just choose not to be? What if everyone else actually DOES deal with what I deal with, but I am just overly emotional/sensitive? What if this is all just a figment of my imagination? What if this is all made up? What if I am not Bipolar but instead I am just a loser? What if my diagnosis is wrong, and there is nothing wrong with me except my inability to deal with every day life issues?"

Searching "Am I really bipolar?" or "Questioning my diagnosis" in any bipolar forum will bring up pages upon pages of people who also go through this thought process. It is frequent.

I want to stop taking my medication. Cancel all therapy appointments. Stop going to the doctor. Get a job and continue with my life. What the fuck am I doing, taking this vacation of agonizing loneliness? Get a JOB! Suck it up buttercup. Pull up your big girl panties and march on. Carry on my wayward son.

Is there really anything actually genuinely wrong with me? Am I just playing a game?

But then I list out all of my outbursts. All of my breakdowns. My familiar waves, the fog of depression, my OH-MY-GOD ideas and pursuits which are never followed through to fruitation. My embarrassing delusions of having romantic relationships with coworkers, professors, bosses and friends. The panic attacks and getting out of bed means climbing a mountain. Then I realize that that list is long. It is several pages long. An old company listed on my employee file that I was "mentally unstable", a label I scoffed at then, but now realize was a correct description.

But is that all real? Do I really have a problem or am I just weak?

This is why it is hard to stay on track with medication. This is why it is hard to continue to go to therapy every week. This is why it took me until the age of 30 to seek help.

Water

With grace and ease

No struggle or strain

They gently carried their water

No grimacing, no pain

Consistent, intentional steps

On the dry earth beneath

Nothing poured out

No puddles beneath

I struggled and stammered

Walking in a jagged line

My water spilling out

Over the top and down the side

My water sloshed and spilled

Puddles and Drops

Flowing over the edges

splashes and plops

How do they not spill, like I

Their water stays put

No drops or mistakes

No wet ground underfoot

Then I looked down

And saw my basket with holes

Their buckets were solid

And mine had holes

There are people in my life that I have learned to avoid. Why? Because they have it all together. Because it's embarrassing to have such high anxiety while they stand there with such grace. It is embarrassing to be mentally hyperventilating, my thoughts screaming and swirling while they make conversation with ease. So I hide. I say hello and I hide. And I hate myself. The goals they have achieved, their accomplishments.

My emotional breakdowns have been seen by all. In my teens it was "hormones". Then I grew older, and my breakdowns continued. I would sob openly, one small thing triggering an explosion of tears or anger. One question, one observation. Of course it was not sudden to me. My irritability, sadness or grief had been quietly building in my mind. "Are you ok?" They would ask, noting my quiet mood or avoided eye contact. "Just fine" I would lie. "You alright?", "Yeah, just tired." I would say. The days would pile on to my brain, my water spilling out the sides. The mental agony continued until one moment, I would lose control. I would drop my basket of water and want to give up. All the while, everyone else around me continued to carrier their bucket of water without spilling a single drop.

The Agony of Standing Still

Like every other American child, I started school when I was 5. Every day, I went to a classroom where I did activities, learned, socialized and played during recess. The evenings and weekends were full of rest and family functions,as well as some well deserved down time. The down time I had earned for all my hard work. My first job began when I was 16. While my education and employment history is riddled with outbursts, depression, anxiety and tears, it was a great distraction. It was goals and achievements but most of all, it was moving forward. Each day brought lessons learned. Each day was another brick layed on what would be my successful life. My mental health issues plagued each day, but the accomplishments and productivity served as a distraction and a source of pride.

My college education began at the age of 19. Like many people with mental health issues, my attendance was poor, my grades fluctuated and I had several occasions of stopping and restarting. Now, at 30 years old, I am only 3 classes away from a degree. It is an Associates degree, the lowest of degrees possible, but I have been working towards it for 10 years (it is supposed to take only 2 years) with at least 5 re-enrollment attempts with the promise of each enrollment that "this will be the time that I finish my degree. This will be the last time I re-enter the college life." and like the several times before, I would hit a rough spot, my grades would suffer and I would drop out.

It is comical now, but thinking back to my college days, every semester I would promise myself to complete the courses. Sometimes on a hypomanic whim, I would enroll in the maximum allowed credits. A typical full time student would enroll in 12, I would enroll in 18. Taking five or six courses swallowed any free time I had but upon my registration for the new semester, my grandiose thinking would promise me that I would achieve in taking the more than recommended course load. At some time in the beginning of the semester, I would come back to reality and realize that my courseload was too much. So, I would drop one, two or even three courses. "There", I would think, that should make it easier to breathe. And it did for a while. My grades were often good, I was able to manage my time and complete assignments.

But then the familiar dark cloud of depression would appear on the horizon. Slowly, it would move over me and steamroll my productivity, my passion, my effort, and my willingness to surivive. The A's turned into D's. Tests were failed, projects were not completed. I had lost my will to live. The poor grades reinforced my feelings of being a failure. Eventually I would stop going to school entirely.

"Dear Professor,
I would like to apologize for my recent absence(s). I am typically a devoted and punctual student with a high GPA, however this semester has left me with a severe case of (illness name) and I am under the care of a doctor."

I would then request make up work, offer to schedule an office meeting, offer an expected date of return or whatever suited the specific situation.

Sometimes I would return to school. What met me in each class was confusion, poor scores and being extremely behind. And guilt.

What made my grades average was that at some point(s), I had hypomania. Somewhere in the mess (this was before I took notice to a pattern of moods), I would have days or weeks of hyperactivity or what I referred to as "intermittent ADHD". It began suddenly. I would be sitting in a lecture hall, taking notes, and then get the greatest urge to jump. Climb the walls. My heart felt like it was coming out of my chest and I became a sexual goddess. I would stay awake all night working on school work, sometimes taking a small nap early in the morning and wake feeling fully refressed. I was excited to turn in all my hard work. I would dress colorfully in skirts (weather permitting) and make eye contact with everyone. My apathy would turn to joy, my drive would skyrocket. I would sign up for groups, quit my job, become obsessed with subjects or hobbies and socialize excessively. Then, I would stay up all night working on home work or projects. I wrote 36 pages in one sitting. I would read chapters of textbooks and study for hours. I was a genius. My aspirations would switch between wanting to major in Archaeology to wanting to be a Psychologist and everything else in between. I never officially switched majors because my obsession with that profession which would engulf my thoughts would last for only a few days or a week.

At some point, the crash would come, and my obsessions and productivity and endless energy would suddenly crash. In the middle of class. Driving home. At work.

This crash, and wave sensation was not new. It has always been there. Before my career. Before college. Before my period. It had always been there. I find comfort in the fact that I now know what the symptoms my mental illness are, and what is real life. What is normal, and what is not. But the trick is, it's hard to tell what is real and what is not.

In the last six months I have switched life courses dozens of times. Once, I became so obsessed with a business idea that I spent 6 days researching and reading, forgoing hygiene and responsibilities. I skipped work for three days so I could devote my time to my true calling; my business. Once I returned to work, I was so hyper that I couldn't stand still. My mind was racing and my mouth was watering and I couldn't think of anything except my new business idea. My heart was beating fast and I felt pressured to keep talking about my business. But I was at work. So I held it in and pretended to be fine.

Then, like a light was turned off, or a drain had been pulled, every ounce of hope, ambition, dedication and excitement drained out of me until there was nothing left but an empty shell of a body. I again, skipped out on work. I again followed the up/down, off/on pattern that I knew so well.

The company I worked for had grown impatient with my inconsistent dedication, my excessive absences and my intermittent ADHD. I resigned. I dropped out of college, for the 6th time.

And I sought help. The up and down waves that I had grown up with appeared to be symptoms of Bipolar Disorder. I was no stranger to mental health offices, I began seeing therapists at the age of 4 for Anxiety. The depression began at the age of 11. That is also when I began to make notations in my school agenda as to where my mood was at. Up arrows for up days, down arrows for down days. Up and down, up and down, up and down. I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder Type II as well as Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

My life of (intermittent) ambition is at a stand still. I am standing still. I am pursuing no goals. I am working towards nothing. Well, actually, thats a bit of a lie. A couple months ago I became conviced I was the next Hemmingway and spent three days (night and day) pursuing a career as an author. I didn't sleep. I obsessed and wrote and wrote and obsessed. Until the fog of depression rolled in and I crawled into bed where I spent 6 weeks in a depressive fog so intense that I began cutting my thigh with a knife in the bathroom. The guilt ate me alive. The shame. I decided I was worthless. My family was better off without me. If only I could dissapear and not cause pain in doing so. No funeral. No body. Just float away.

So I stand still. And it is agonizing. No work. No school. No productivity. When the depression rolls in, I am so grateful that I have no where to call in sick to, no classes to miss, no work to fall behind on. I am so thankful that I can become catatonic with sadness and there are no consequences. But then there are days when I feel fine and I watch the neighbors leave for work, and the children leave for school and I want to go with them.

Then, suddenly, over a matter of minutes, tiny marbles of energy enter my body. My toes tingle and my hands search for something to clean. Something to organize. Something to create and master and learn and achieve. I am A GENIUS. I am BRILLIANT. I am capable of ANYTHING. I CAN FLY. A small suggestion from a friend, a magazine article, an idea catches my attention and I cling on. I invest. I passionately obsess knowing that this idea is BRILLIANT and totally attainable. I am limitless. I write and I write and I read and I plan. I volunteer and I sign up and commit and promise and take in more and more and more tasks. Then, the drain is pulled. And back to bed I go. Getting out of bed is like climbing a mountain. My arms weigh hundreds of pounds. I shuffle through the house with the curtains drawn. I wish I didn't exist. I day dream about suicide. I mentally count the number of knives that I had hidden in the bathroom. I don't want to cut. I want to stab.

I am so angry with myself for not pursuing school. I am so angry with myself for not working. I should be leaving for work, like the neighbors. I should continue working towards that measly degree.

My pattern is still there. My up arrows and down arrows are still there. So I stand still, unsure of what direction to go, what to pursue, and what is reality and what is my mind running away with itself.

Standing still is agonizing. It is un-American. It is shameful. It is a life not experienced.