‘Who Knows What the Future Holds?’

by Lee Haynes

When I was a toddler, I had a serious head injury. I first had anxiety when I was about six or seven years old. I remember chewing my way through my jumper sleeves like I was frantically gnawing through bark.

My earliest memory of being depressed is when I was twelve years old. The world just seemed distant and dark. I knew I didn’t see things the way a normal twelve-year-old should. By the time I was fifteen, I was taking anti-depressants.

I was a shy teenager who spent most of my time in the music room at school. Music was a way of dealing with my feelings and moods.

“A little touch of chaos and danger makes a city sexy.” –David Byrne

As a nineteen-year-old student, for the first eighteen months of my time in London this was certainly true.  The wild parties, heavy drinking and promiscuous lifestyle were a way of escaping the dark underlying depression that would come and go as it pleased.  I was mugged twice when walking home, but even that didn’t stop me.  I didn’t want the party to stop; there were too many good times to be had and no one could keep up.  I wanted to push the limits, go harder and faster.

On top of that, I was riding the creative waves.  Sometimes I had so many ideas I couldn’t record them quickly enough, or they just fizzled out.  There would be times I couldn’t even physically play a note; my fingers just wouldn’t move, and my mind and hands were refusing to communicate.

Then three months short of my twenty-first birthday, I had a crash.  The party was over. I was at home for the end of term break, and I became convinced my house was haunted.  I couldn’t even stay in my house.  I was referred to a specialist and he advised to take time off university.  My place was held, so I could re-start when the new university year began.

It was during this time I was diagnosed with Dyspraxia by an educational psychologist.  I had no idea what it was or meant, but I was given a detailed report full of jargon.  I went back to university, only this time I commuted every day.  I struggled to complete university.  I tried desperately to stay on the straight and narrow, but it was the same old story.  I had to do whatever I could to bury the despairing depression that plagued my mind.  On my reference, it even says I could have got a 1st if I had been able to deal with my mental health, and that my grade didn’t reflect my ability.

Upon graduation, I was offered a job teaching music.  I was naughty and didn’t declare my mental health struggles.  I also didn’t disclose my Dyspraxia.  I assumed my job offer would be revoked if they found out.  I did eventually disclose both to a very understanding and supportive boss.  Then one day, I decided to quit a perfectly good job without even thinking what I was going to do next.  Like a misguided muse, it just seemed like the next part of an adventure.

I was lucky and found another teaching job.  By now, I had pretty much tried every anti-depressant there was.  None of them worked, and some made me virtually psychotic. The final anti-depressant brand I took succeeded in pushing me into psychosis.  Within ten years, I had my second psychotic break and I plunged into a dark depression.  Strange to think I actually don’t remember most of it.  But one thing was certain: my ten-year career as a teacher was over.  I lost my job.

I was referred to a specialist again and I was diagnosed with Bipolar Affective Disorder. I was put on Depakote, which I take to this day.  It has been three years since I was diagnosed and even now I am learning how to manage it and what my triggers are.  You are advised by clinicians to try to monitor your moods.  However, anyone with Bipolar or any other mental health condition will know the severity comes and goes as it pleases.  I can have a good day and then, for no reason at all, have a bad day. It’s like the British weather, forever changing and entirely unpredictable.

In terms of my creativity, I haven’t recorded a new CD in nearly four years and I have about 200 pieces of unfinished music, in varying degrees of pleasantry to the ear.  Sometimes a session in the studio will work and a few hours will fly by; other times, five minutes of frustration later, it’s best to call it a day.  I guess the Depakote is best described as a flat liner for me.  I still get the swings, but not as severe.  I miss the highs and the mania that came with them, but I don’t miss the outcome of it.  The hardest thing is that it stifles the creativity at times, but I know without it there are consequences.

I have been asked if I am bitter about what happened.  I simply answer: I already have a companion, my Bipolar.  If you invite bitterness along, and it will just create a perfect storm.  These days, I am interested in Special Educational Needs in Schools, I do temporary work, and I am trying to work out what to do next.  Who knows what the future holds?  I am still finding my feet and learning new things about myself.

To quote my favourite phrase: “Out of order comes accuracy; out of chaos, truth.” –Pierre le R du Toit

A Note from the Editor:

This, again, is an altogether too commonly heard story.  As someone who has been diagnosed myself, I have also tried a slew of anti-depressants.  Interestingly, even though they’re meant to treat anxiety and depression, the side effects include…anxiety and suicidal ideation.  It is also widely reported that they quell creativity / passion, and this happened to me.  But I also wanted to comment that I, too, developed psychosis through being on an SSRI for several years.  It was later determined that I have bipolar disorder, but this was never screened / diagnosed previously.  I have since read that people with these sorts of conditions should not be put on such drugs, because psychotic episodes are a very frequent ‘side effect’ in such cases.

Thank you very much for sharing your story, and I wish you all the best in life.  Also, if you ever do put any music out, even if it is simply self-released, do let us know and we would be happy to mention it to our readers.

If you have a story to share, please contact us here. We don’t mind if your story is inspirational or simply a way of getting things off your chest.  We proofread all stories, but we censor nothing.  And if you want to make sure you don’t miss out on the stories other brave people share with us, be sure to click the ‘Subscribe’ button at the top-right of this page.

]]> https://conditionalpublications.com/2013/07/04/who-knows-what-the-future-holds-a-story-by-lee-hayne/feed/ 0 https://conditionalpublications.com/2013/07/02/i-just-want-to-be-happy-is-that-too-much-to-ask-for/ https://conditionalpublications.com/2013/07/02/i-just-want-to-be-happy-is-that-too-much-to-ask-for/#comments Tue, 02 Jul 2013 07:23:16 +0000 http://conditionalpublications.com/?p=1810 ‘I just want to be happy – is that too much to ask for?’

An Anonymous Story

I have Bipolar, Borderline Personality Disorder and many other anxiety issues.  My thirteen-year-old son has severe ADHD, ODD, Dyslexia, Learning Difficulties, severe behavioural problems and thought processing problems.  We are both medicated for our illnesses.

We have both been diagnosed and we are both on prescribed medication. So I would like to know why I have had to fight for ten years for my son to access services he has desperately needed.  All these have been denied.  He’s not allowed to join after school clubs, because it’s too risky.  He’s not allowed an education in my county.  I have had to seek out the best solicitor, who has helped my son join an out-of-county residential school, who cater for his every need.  This school has helped my son so much, yet I had to find this school through a solicitor.

I have had major depression since I can remember.  As I got older, I started to self-harm, and now I have a long history of suicide attempts. I have been medicated since the age of eighteen, and over the years I have seen many psychiatrists, CPNs, psychologists and therapists.  I have also been prescribed many different types of medications.  At the age of seventeen, I was admitted to a hospital for children with behavioural problems.  So why was I, in 2008, discharged from my entire network of support, having been told I ‘look’ like I’m ‘coping’?  Why have I had to fight ever since to receive support, but have been either fobbed off, ignored or been totally denied access to services needed and lied to?

I am forty-nine years old and I am living in hell.  I don’t sleep because of the nightmares and I don’t want to be awake because of the real-life nightmares I have to face daily.  If it weren’t for my son, I would have been gone a long time ago, but I stay to try and help him.  Like me, he has no one else.

In 2013, how can this be happening to us?  We don’t have money or expensive things; we aren’t spoiled.  All we want is help to hopefully enjoy our time on Earth.  Is that so much to ask for?

Thank you for allowing me to share our experiences.

A Note from the Editor:

I get the impression you live in the UK.  Is that correct?  I live there too, and I have family who work in social care / social services, as well as friends who are psychologists.  I know all too well how common your story sadly is.  The government has ‘cracked down’ on benefits over the last few years to a painful degree.  Somehow in trying to stop people from taking liberties and living off benefits when they don’t need to, the government has managed to take these away from people who genuinely require that support. Furthermore, this comes on the back of quite a number of people having no tolerance and forming prejudices against people who need that extra help.  It has been an incredibly frustrating, upsetting time for many people and I want to thank you for sharing your story, because people like you need to speak out.  Otherwise, how will anything ever change?

If you have a story to share, please contact us here. We don’t mind if your story is inspirational or simply a way of getting things off your chest.  We proofread all stories, but we censor nothing.  And if you want to make sure you don’t miss out on the stories other brave people share with us, be sure to click the ‘Subscribe’ button at the top-right of this page.

]]> https://conditionalpublications.com/2013/07/02/i-just-want-to-be-happy-is-that-too-much-to-ask-for/feed/ 1 https://conditionalpublications.com/2013/07/02/my-story-by-the-bipolar-bandit/ https://conditionalpublications.com/2013/07/02/my-story-by-the-bipolar-bandit/#respond Tue, 02 Jul 2013 07:10:50 +0000 http://conditionalpublications.com/?p=1813 ‘My Story’

by ‘The Bipolar Bandit’

My name is Michelle Hughes and I started suffering from severe depression at the age of thirteen.  I would just cry and cry for no reason, and I could not concentrate or do simplest tasks like vacuuming. I would miss two weeks of school at a time.

I had a severe manic episode at the age of seventeen that resulted in a hospitalization.  It was during the month at the hospital that I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

I was always a good student and high achiever.  After missing two weeks of school, I would make up all my work in two to three days.  It is now thought that those were mini manic episodes that enabled me to do that.

I got mainly As in school, was the president of several clubs in high school and graduated from college with a degree in elementary education.  I was the manager of a movie theater, a trainer at Walt Disney World, and taught school for about ten years.  I was even named Teacher of the Year in 2004.  I am not telling you about these accomplishments to brag, but to make you realize that even though I had this mental illness, I was still able to achieve a lot.

I have been hospitalized more times than I can count.  Although most of the time it was for psychiatric reasons, I was also hospitalized several times for ailments that were thought to be caused by the medications I was on for bipolar disorder.  I had pancreatitis, my gall bladder removed, numerous stomach problems severe enough for hospitalizations, tardive dyskenisia and heart problems bad enough to put me in the ICU.  The worst was when I developed dystonia and my chin was “stuck” to my chest for about four months.  I was really lucky this was not permanent.

After being in the hospital for various reasons sixteen times in one year, I was forced to stop teaching and go on disability.

I have always tried to fight for the rights of the mentally ill.  I am also on a mission to fight the stigma of mental illness.  I have written numerous letters to politicians trying to change the way those who have mental illnesses are treated.

I fight the battle every day.  I mainly stay somewhat depressed, but am mostly worried about the manic episodes.  The last time I was hospitalized was for ten days and that was about four months ago.  I keep fighting the fight, although some days it seems hopeless.  I have a strong support system, a loving family, and a strong faith, and am determined to rise above this illness.  These things help me every day.

If you have a story to share, please contact us here. We don’t mind if your story is inspirational or simply a way of getting things off your chest.  We proofread all stories, but we censor nothing.  And if you want to make sure you don’t miss out on the stories other brave people share with us, be sure to click the ‘Subscribe’ button at the top-right of this page.

My official diagnoses are OCD and bipolar II disorder.  I guess what I’d like to demonstrate here is how much more these conditions are than what you typically read in the books, and how many other problems and oddities can come along with mental disorders.First, the OCD.  It developed when I was just a child.  I was afraid that by making mistakes or feeling the “wrong” emotions, I would harm my parents.  I would say magic words and draw pictures of my family which I believed would keep everybody safe.  I also remember seeing and hearing strange things as a child, from a talking flower to a nonexistent bobcat to a bedroom full of lizards.  This continued for some years (through elementary school) but is no longer such a problem.

In elementary school I moved to a new town and the kids at the school were really mean.  I got made fun of for the effects of what I now know to have been mental disorders.  At the time, I thought I was just a weird kid who deserved it.  When I was 12 years old, the OCD became an even bigger part of my life.  I still feared harming my parents and other loved ones, but now I would seek reassurance from them rather than drawing “magical” pictures.  I started to write lists of things I needed to do — an innocent habit at first, and one that even helped me at the time.  But it soon grew into an obsession.  The lists were never detailed enough, never in the right order; you get the idea.  I would also brush the carpet in my room (and sometimes the rest of the house) by hand whenever it got “messed up” (all the threads not facing the same direction).

Soon OCD was my life.  My family moved again and I became obsessed with keeping my stuff packed in organized boxes.  I would pack and repack but it was never right.  So I got rid of things.  Tons of things.  I wasn’t “allowed” by my OCD to decorate my room or have normal things like extra pillows.  Only the bare minimum was acceptable.  I soon went from being a straight-A student to nearly failing in school.  Teachers and parents said it was because I was “lazy”.  I turned to self-injury (something I had been experimenting with since early childhood) on a more regular basis.

In adulthood, I developed new obsessions — I owed someone money and was incurring tons of interest; I had been in a car accident without knowing it; I had run somebody over in my car.  I developed the classic “bump-checking” compulsion, as well as constantly worrying and checking about bank accounts I had never opened, or car accidents that never happened.  My biggest obsession was (and still is) a fear of developing amnesia.  The related compulsion is arranging things so that certain things touch and others don’t and everything is perfectly categorized — an impossible standard, and yet I can’t stop.

I also developed avoidance as an adult.  I would avoid school because it was simply too scary.  I had a panic attack at work one time — partly the result of my OCD and its inability to tolerate chaos — and became terrified of crowds.  I have only had one panic attack since, over the arrangement of items in my room.

Bipolar is also tough to live with, and for me it enhances the OCD.  Manic: compulsive.  Depressed: obsessive.  I think one way to explain it is I’m like a bottle of champagne that alternately bubbles and goes flat.  Or, like a conducting material when manic (and I see and feel and hear all the beauty in the world and want to capture it forever) and an insulator when depressed (and I feel cut off from everything).  Bipolar messes with my (almost nonexistent, but getting better) sleeping and eating schedules, which is rough.

I have other problems too.  I have huge problems with executive functioning — the ability to plan and carry out steps.  I have trouble making simple decisions and doing simple things like dressing and preparing meals.  I have synesthesia, which is not all bad and in fact mostly good, but sometimes it feeds my OCD.  I have trouble communicating verbally because I think in pictures and symbols and sometimes loosely-connected words, not in linear sequences of words.  It’s easier for me to communicate through poetry, math, or music.  I have tics, which are related to “bad” OCD thoughts — some of them are words and some are muscle-tension related.  I have also had problems with coordination, ever since I was a child.

Well…in conclusion, I think the main problem with this essay is it shows my compulsions but not the intense pain behind them.  OCD is a mentally painful and taxing condition.  I hate doing all the things I “have” to do as a result of OCD, but I can’t stop, or at least it will take years of intensive therapy for me to stop.  If it’s enjoyable, it’s probably not OCD.  If it feels like you are being driven to do something you really know you don’t want to do, it probably is OCD.  In this essay, I also wanted to show that the problems of a person with a mental condition go far beyond the diagnostic criteria for that condition.  Hopefully I have succeeded somewhat.

Click below to order Check Mates, the first ever collection of fiction poetry and artwork about OCD

amazon.com amazon.co.uk amazon.ca

‘Rick’

My Story

Every moment, I know its going to happen.  The other shoe is going to drop and I will die.  From my own hand, maybe, because it will be so awful. I will not be able to handle it.

It’s morning.  The worst for me.  I’ve been up most of the night tossing and turning.  There is no such thing as healthy sleep.  I try to get out of bed, and I can’t because I am being crushed by my own thoughts.  Thoughts of my hell day flash through the diseased filters of my mind.  Welcome to me.

To understand this, or to understand depression in general, you ‘un-sick’ people out there need to get into the mood…and you must be willing to ‘feel’ …even though – actually, especially if – it hurts.

What is the worst thing that ever happened to you ?  Did someone close to you die ?  Were you in a terrible accident? Did someone you love dump you for another?  Did a close friend betray you?  How did you feel when you first learned of death and/or betrayal?  Did you feel lightheaded and confused for a moment?  Then did the train hit you?  As the initial days wore on, did you feel ‘better’, or did your gut remain tight and your breath short?  Did vivid images attack you – e.g. how the person died and what he or she felt?  Or did you picture your love in bed with another?  Or did you picture your best friend having good times with others, but not you?

You must feel those feelings here – as though it just happened. Do it. Not just for a moment.  Rather, close your eyes and hold the thoughts with all your might.  Go deeper – what is the morgue going to do to the loved one that died?  What acts is your love doing with the ‘other’ person?  What are all the places and events going to be that you will never enjoy with your friend?  Keep your eyes closed and force the images to stay in your mind.  Make the images and feelings go round and round – like a carousel.  And feel the blackness.  Feel the short breath.

Don’t open your eyes: I can’t – even with my eyes open.  Those harsh, tortuous feelings never leave.  Rather, they attack like an onslaught – it’s like right before you thrown up – the sick feeling, the acid in your stomach.   But the feeling stays – you can’t throw up for relief.  Rather, the feelings pull you down, and down.  And it gets darker and darker.  Keep your eyes closed – try to open them, but do not let yourself open them.  Feel the despair.  Feel yourself unable to move.  Feel yourself cry.  And feel what it would feel like to believe it will never go away.

Now, imagine having these symptoms arise and fall at whim.  Imagine them holding on and terrorizing you for hours, or even days.  Imagine you have absolutely no control over them.  Imagine that you have to function at work, at school, among friends, at family functions – sometimes while your gut is coming out.  Imagine that they appear to be with you for the rest of your life.

Imagine the feelings never going away.  Unlike other post-catastrophe mental states, there is never the occasional or sporadic relief that the mind creates for self survival in emergencies.  Imagine sometimes being in the dark hole every waking minute.  Imagine that you cannot even see straight – like you are partially drunk.  Imagine that those feelings mentioned previously never go away – those from the death, the heartbreak, the betrayal.  Rather, they ebb and flow all day long, or suddenly, out of nowhere, they attack without notice.

Can you feel it, even for a moment?  If so, welcome to major depression.  Lucky you, though.  You can put this writing down and leave.  I cannot.

What is this called?  Some tell me I am a ‘major depressive’.  Some say I am bipolar, because I have incidents, though not frequently, where I am acting in a sort of manic stage – very outward, intense, wired, like on speed, doing things I otherwise might not – and then I crash.  But the lows far exceed the highs.  Some say I am OCD – I can’t let things go.  I’ll do things over and over and over – to be perfect and lose the forest  through the trees.  I also have panic attacks.  Sometimes I’m unable to get off the floor, even to do something as simple as take a shower.  Often I just want to stay in my house and not talk to anyone.  To sleep.  That is my savior. Sometimes weekends at a time.  What the fuck am I?  Does it matter?  Maybe for insurance purposes.  Maybe for the meds to be prescribed?  The many meds.  I am an addict.

Writing this is kinda good and kinda sucks.  It is good because others who suffer will read it, and perhaps this will help them know they are not alone.  It sucks because it puts things into words and reminds me of what I am – fucked up.  If I don’t have my six little pills every day, bad things happen.  Actually, bad things happen even if I take the pills, but without them, I get much worse.  But is it the addiction to the drugs which makes it worse – i.e. without them I freak?  Or, do I truly suffer from chemical imbalances?  I am not willing to try life without them.  Before I began to take them, I almost died.  For me, it works like this: survival = drugs.  No drugs = death.  I

n my sick head, I am so afraid of the impending disaster, and that it will cause my death, I am unable to think that someday I will die anyway, so I might as well enjoy life while I can.  That, however, would be a healthy thought – I am unable to accept it, or believe it.  Because it is bullshit – failure and disaster are my world.  Joy is for everyone else.  They are all so lucky, I think, because at least they don’t suffer from my hell – that which I cannot get away from.

Click below to order Check Mates, the first ever collection of fiction poetry and artwork about OCD

amazon.com amazon.co.uk amazon.ca

I am so afraid to stop the motion. I am so afraid to lie down. I am terrified of my mind running free for hours as I lie in the dark praying for sleep to come. I feel like I have live wires running all through my arms and legs. I experience a roller coaster of emotions. My stomach actually feels like I am riding on one. I can’t breathe. I can’t sleep. At times, I can’t eat. My head swims. I am underwater. I am drowning. I try to tread. All I want is escape.

Getting through the day seems insurmountable. All this I try to hide from my seven-year-old daughter. I am a single mother. I am broke. I want to spend. I want to consume. I want to run away. Nothing is ever enough. I am impulsive. I do not think my decisions through. I dyed my hair bright red, which  seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, I hate it. At least I’ve come this far – the only damage I have done to myself this time is cosmetic, not life-threatening.

My body betrays me. It jerks and twitches and clenches up my insides. I have a permanent headache from clenching my jaws too tightly.my neck throbs with tension. My head beats like a drum. I feel empty inside and raw. There is nothing that can fill me up. I try to lay down.my body dances like a hideous puppet on strings. Waves of panic seize my stomach. Again I cannot catch my breath.

At these times, all the myriad medications I am on mean nothing. I become completely immune. This too shall pass, I pray. It usually does. The good times in between just seem to be getting shorter. I pray those close to me will not realize how close to some precarious edge I am. I pray I am not too out of control, too hyped up, too offensive. I pray God will make the pain stop.

I try to exercise for relief. I try to take extra medication. I try not to eat sugar or drink caffeine. I try to isolate myself as much as possible and not lose my already compromised mind. My eyes are always on the verge of overflowing.

Before treatment and therapy this would have led to illegal drugs, alcohol, and men. Searching for anything to fill the void. I am stronger than that now. And at least that is one thing I can be proud of.

I saw my therapist today. I read to her from this journal. Just reading what I have written makes me cry. I thought Bipolar would be a thing that could be controlled – that with treatment and medication I could be normal. Now I know this is not true. Bipolar is like a beast. Sometimes it sleeps, other times it tries to destroy you. No matter how far or fast I run, no matter where I hide, it comes for me.

All the coping mechanisms – all the tidy tools they try to arm you with – those are never enough. When it comes to the major battles, you are naked and defenseless. You are nothing. At times like these I have no dreams, no hopes, no tomorrows.

I hate trying to wake up the next day. I feel like a zombie from all the meds I had to take just to be able to get a few hours of sleep. The monkey is not always on my back at this point, but he is still in the room. I have run out of household chores. I am scared of being idle. Driving through the streets, listening to songs that move me as loud as the speakers will go – this helps me. This can bring a smile. I sing at the top of my voice and believe some of the sickness trapped inside is expelled.

Even as my body slows down – that internal humming growing fainter – the throbbing in my head remains. I am so furious that at times like this, prescribed drugs are the only things that get me off this crazy ride. I’ve got to be doped up just to cope, and boy does it take a lot to get me there. Some days I take so many pills I lose count. I can’t remember what, how many, when. I will do just about anything to get the monkey off my back. Seems like a vicious cycle that defeats the whole purpose – the purpose being a life of clarity, sanity, participation.

]]> https://conditionalpublications.com/2012/02/19/monkey-on-my-back-living-with-bipolar/feed/ 3 https://conditionalpublications.com/2012/02/13/aspergers-and-mania-a-worried-mothers-story/ https://conditionalpublications.com/2012/02/13/aspergers-and-mania-a-worried-mothers-story/#comments Mon, 13 Feb 2012 09:23:52 +0000 http://conditionalpublications.com/?p=782 The writer of this story has chosen to remain anonymous

I am writing about my 16-year-old son who struggles with cyclothymia and Asperger’s. He does very well as long as he is properly medicated, although he continues to have anxiety. His biggest issue is with medication compliance because he does not like the sexual side effects. He is not sexually active yet but I understand that, as a young man, he wants to know that his stuff works.

Without meds, he becomes paranoid, then obsessive – particularly about food. About once a year he becomes a vegetarian. He perseverates on communism, socialism, fish, and Kurt Cobain, among other things. In the past, this has hurt him socially as it tends to alienate him from friends and sometimes family. He has also struggled with sexuality when manic, unknowingly making himself a target for child predators on the internet. I am forever having to rescue him. He also has a consistent level of gradiosity, which could stem from both mania and Asperger’s.

He has a long-term girlfriend, which really helps keep him on track with his meds because she has seen him when he’s off and doesn’t like it. But I worry about his future even with her (they are already discussing marriage) because I know that she can’t truly understand what she’s dealing with until she has lived with it. And they are so young.

When manic, he has turned to cutting, marijuana, alcohol and homosexuality, as well as extreme political groups.

He is a fascinating, intelligent, talented, good-looking, kind-hearted and wonderful person and I resent the mental illness’ interference in his life.

~ Concerned Mom

I was always a moody child. My mother would diplomatically explain it away as having an “artistic temperament”, as I used to enjoy drawing, painting, and music. When I became a teenager prone to extremely depressed moods and suicidal thoughts, they were blamed on the ups and downs of adolescence. No one ever thought to take me to a psychiatrist, and all was swept under the rug. You see, I grew up in a household where the “stiff upper lip” was the norm, and mental illness was certainly nothing that was ever discussed.

When I was 20 years old, I was a junior transfer student at the University of California at Davis (UC Davis). It was my first time away from home, and initially I thought I was just swept away in the excitement of it all. Then my thoughts began to race, I started talking so fast no one could understand me, and I didn’t need sleep. It escalated to a point where the school basically gave me an ultimatum: go see the psychiatrist at the Student Health Center, or risk getting kicked out of school. I had worked very hard to get into UC Davis, so I complied. The psychiatrist took one look at me in my manic state, grabbed a book from the bookshelf, and started reading symptoms to me, asking me if I had them. When we were done, I had a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder and a prescription for medication. I had side effects from the medication and told the doctor about them, but he seemed rather dismissive of me. So in anger and denial tha there was anything wrong with me, I threw my medication in the trash.

Fast forward to when I was 26 years old. I had just moved to a new town and taken on a new job when I fell into a manic high. I began thinking I was a prophet, and that it was the end of the world. I wandered the streets of San Francisco, started hearing and seeing things, and giving my personal possessions away. I took out a restraining order on my parents because I was sure they were trying to kill me. It came to a head with my being arrested by the airport police at the Air France counter at the San Francisco International Airport for making a shrine to John Lennon. I was involuntarily hospitalized for 2 weeks, and dosed with so much anti-psychotic medication I was immobilized in my bed, drooling with my eyes rolling back into my head. When I was discharged from the hospital, I lost most of the “friends” I thought I had; lost my place to live; had to go bankrupt due to my manic spending sprees, and stay with my parents for some time to recuperate.

When I was 33, I lost my job and was going through a painful divorce. I had a depression that was so paralyzing, getting out of bed was a major effort, and I almost successfully ended my own life. I checked into a hospital in California that didn’t really do me any favors: I checked in depressed and checked out manic. When I became manic, once again I thought I was a prophet and the world was ending, and I heard and saw things. I went to stay with my parents in Oregon, where they were living at the time, and was in and out of the hospital until an outstanding psychiatrist managed to stabilize me. Again, I had to file bankruptcy due to my spending sprees when I was manic.

At age 38, I moved from my native California to Washington State for a relationship and job opportunity. I lost the job unexpectedly within 3 months, and the loss of that job, along with other pressures, caused me to slip headlong into another severe depression. This time, I was able to find an excellent psychiatrist, group and individual counseling and also was able to put some other behavioral pieces into place. In addition to Bipolar Disorder, I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Panic Disorder, and Social Phobia. It has taken a lot of hard work, but things have improved dramatically thanks to an early treatment intervention.

These days, I am waiting on a Social Security Disability hearing in front of a judge. After working in the corporate world for 20 years, I have finally realized I can no longer function in the capacity I once did, and need assistance. But it’s not a dead end being a disabled person. I have written 2 books of poetry and am very active in advocacy with NAMI (National Alliance on the Mentally Ill) by being a speaker in their “In Our Own Voice” program. No, it’s not a dead end – just pursuing life down a different road to the one I’d anticipated.

I have sexual OCD thoughts that are inappropriate and I think that also started growing up with a mentally ill mother saying crazy things around me all the time. I have obsessionsv/ compulsions associated with tasting non-food items: I don’t injest them, but have tasted many things, and I immediately wash my mouth out after! This started as a teenager – smelling nice shampoo and wondering if it tasted as good as it smelled…it doesn’t!

I am a nice person and most people recognize that. I don’t share these things with many people unless I really trust them not to judge me. I hate my OCD at times and then other times, I’m scared to be without it. It’s been a “Security Blanket” for me for many year, I feel to control a world that started so “Out of Control” as a child.

MC

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As a young child (around 4-5 years old), I suffered from my “illness”. I would hear voices, and I never slept. Often I would ask my mother why it was that I heard things nobody else heard, and her explanation was that God was trying to talk to me. So when the voices called out my name, I was at my wit’s end, calling to God, telling him I really was listening, and that He could just tell me already!

Growing up was extremely hard for me. School was the worst, because I never had any friends. I wanted friends, but when I had them, I never truly felt happy. I was also verbally abused by my step-father. He was bipolar, and the medication he was on never worked for him.

My mother worked at a convalescent hospital and was always at work, so my step-father would watch my brother and me. He laid in bed all day, sleeping, only waking up for an hour or so to eat. My brother and I were expected to take care of ourselves, and if we  made even a bit of noise, he would come out and beat us. Eventually, as I approached my teen years, my mother left him, and he would never hear from us again. But another problem arose, and it was one that shaped my life forever.

On my mother’s side, I have two cousins, brother and sister. Let’s call them Amy and James. Amy and I had always been close. And James, while he was almost four years older than me, had always been more of an older brother figure. Well, they were…molesting me. Both at the same time, but neither of the two knew about the other’s actions. This abuse plunged me deeper into my insomnia and depression. Some nights, I would stay up the entire night, just sobbing uncontrollably. I felt so helpless and alone. It was then that I started to hurt myself.

My freshman year in high school, I met the most amazing person. Let’s call him Ryan. He was gorgeous, tall, with somewhat Aryan features. He was a nerd, and we would spend hours just talking about video games, cartoons, etc. We started dating, and all was well. But when he graduated, another side of him arose. I was transferred to a school that had just been built, and made new friends. All of them were guys. Ryan was suspicious of them, and forced me to break off the friendship. But I didn’t. Countless times he accused me of cheating on him. And yes, while I thought some guys were cute, I never thought of leaving him. I was so much in love with him, and I knew he was the one for me. But these accusations caused an on-and-off relationship for us. One day, we would be fine, and the next, he would find something wrong with me and break it off.

During this time, the voices came back, louder than ever. I couldn’t go a day without hearing them. And it made me feel even crazier. I would hear voices, and then I would cut myself, which made Ryan angry, and it was just a vicious cycle. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I beat myself up, because all I wanted to do was please Ryan. He was my entire world, and I loved him. He enlisted in the Air Force, and he said he would make a life for us. We began to plan our future together, and the reality was setting in that, even though we had our fights and troubles, he was still in love with me, and that we were going to be together for the rest of our lives.

Before he left, he proposed to me. There was no ring, but it didn’t matter to me. All that mattered was that we promised ourselves to each other, and that we were going to stick it out and make the relationship work. Time went by, and I was so helplessly in love with him. But somehow he didn’t feel the same. So I fell deeper into my depression, and began to have suicidal thoughts. I started taking huge amounts of pills and going to sleep, hoping I would never wake up.

I talked to people on the internet, hoping to find someone who would love me. I wanted to leave Ryan, but every time I tried, he would suck me back in. I hate to admit it, but I began to make relationships with random guys on the internet, even going so far as having phone sex with them, trying to feel something close to love. Those relationships never lasted, and it left me with the feeling of being so dirty. I hated myself so much for what I was doing, but I was so addicted. I would take a shower after every time I was on the phone with a guy, and I would bleach myself, and then cut myself all over my thighs. I wanted to die so bad.

So one day, I took a bunch of pills, I got a scarf, and I tried to hang myself. Right as I was blacking out, the hat rack I was using broke and fell, hitting me on the head. I crawled into bed and cried myself to sleep. A couple weeks later, I had my mom check me into the mental hospital, because I was so scared of myself. I didn’t feel safe. I wanted to die so very badly, but at the same time, I didn’t want to give up on life. So I spent a week in the hospital, and it’s really a week that I vaguely remember, because I was so drugged up. My speech was slurred, and I couldn’t even walk straight. I really feel that if I wasn’t so drugged, and if my roommate hadn’t molested me, I could have made some progress. However, it plunged me deeper, and the doctors suddenly called me “manic depressive.”

And so here I am today, 17, on the edge of becoming a legal adult, and wondering where I’m going to go from here. The thing that gives me hope is song writing. I hope one day someone will hear my music and be encouraged.

‘Ellie’