“I really loved the old you” were his last words as he walked out my front door, moments after breaking up with me. The most despairing thing was that I agreed with him. I loathed every inch of myself and for that very reason I didn’t even question him. He said I had damaged his mental health and I believed him. In that moment, I felt downright contagious and I couldn’t think of a single reason why he should stay with me. Alas, I only wished that I too could break up with myself. Cut all ties. Just like he was able to.
Getting diagnosed with bipolar disorder five months previous, at the age of 20 had utterly stripped me of my identity. I had been so acutely unwell that I had lost control of my own life. All of a sudden, doctors, therapists and medication dictated my every move. I found the “new” bipolar me unbearable. Bipolar had consumed my senses. Burning in my ears was relentless self-depreciation. A concoction of experimental meds lasted in my mouth. The very feeling of being in my own skin was insufferable. I couldn’t see any future for my new bipolar self.
Not only did my romantic relationship suffer but too did my friendships. Initially I told no one about my diagnosis. The shame and denial I felt forced me into silence. But when I had to miss a few days of college and postpone college exams, some began to notice. Sadly, I was branded “a bad friend” by former close friends who were less than empathetic to the “new” me. Other friends distanced themselves. Yet, I am blessed to have friends who only ever treated me like the “old” me even in the hardest of days. The friends who visited me while I was an inpatient gave me a taste of normality while my life was in sheer turmoil. Those who stuck by me helped me to cling onto fragments of the “old” me even when I felt alien.
The unrelenting and unconditional familial love that I felt throughout my diagnosis was both comforting and claustrophobic. Along with that came guilt. I felt guilty that they were with me through the hysterical highs and grievous lows. I cannot fathom the fear they must of felt when I was initially manic and hospitalized. The heartache and frustration they felt when I hit my low. And the pure fatigue of it all. Their lives were put on hold while the doctors tried to figure out what was wrong with me. They spent summer evenings in the car of the hospital car park crying with worry. To this day that is something I am incapable of thinking back on without getting extremely upset.
Today, I am a 22 year-old still learning about bipolar. I never expect any of my friends or family to understand an illness that to this day I can’t explain. When I was an inpatient one of the other patients wrote a poem titled “bipolar you prick.” Bipolar is most definitely a big fat prick.
Something I have learned is the sheer importance of my relationships. My relationships with friends, family and myself are critical to self-managing my condition. While I have experienced the disappointment of close friends letting me down, other times I have been taken aback by kindness from those I least expected. A pivotal moment for me was working alongside someone who I didn’t know. When she discovered I had been through a difficult time she asked me about it. This was the first time I had voluntarily told anyone I had bipolar. She told me I was normal and that we all go through bad times. I believed her. I could see then that everyday life is full of up and downs. While my up and downs are more extreme, I could still get on with it. I felt comfort in knowing that this girl -who didn’t know me – didn’t judge me. It gave me the belief that any true friend would react the same way.
Today I have a great circle of friends. I have friends –who- 95% of the time I just have fun with. These friends are also there the 5% of the time when I need to get things off my chest. Recently I met a friend for dinner. I forewarned her that I was having a bad day and asked was she sure she still wanted to meet me. By the time I met her I was in floods of tears on a busy shopping street. I couldn’t explain the tears and frankly she didn’t ask for an explanation. I had tears running down my face as I ordered from the menu. We ordered pizza and a glass of wine and by the end of it I was laughing and back talking about normal things. Those are the friends you need! I’m sure my friends would say that it’s not often that I have a noticeably bad day. Further, when I do speak about my feelings it’s not all dark and gloomy. I would much prefer to talk about holidays, nights out, dating etc. Yet, at the same time it is important to have friends that you can have fun with but who are also there to listen when you’re feeling down.
Bipolar certainly does not define me or my relationships but there are days when it acts as a major hindrance. It poses a threat to my efforts to stay well. Particularly on the bad days, my relationships are ever important. Talking to my friends helps me to think clearly. Communicating with family helps me to feel loved and cared for. Being a little kinder to myself helps me to heal.
At the end of the day, I disregard there being an old and a new me. I try my best to accept that this is part of my life.
“At times, being bipolar can be an all-consuming challenge, requiring a lot of stamina and even more courage, so if you’re living with the illness and functioning at all, it’s something to be proud of, not ashamed of.” – Carrie Fisher
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