I’m writing a series of posts about things I HATE admitting about my mental illness. I’m only writing things I have personal experience with, so I would like to note that not everyone with Bipolar II has these symptoms. Everyone is different, but I want people to feel less alone if they struggle with these things.
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It was my grad year. I was working 30 hours a week, getting grades I’d never seen before in my life, and doing activities like never before. If you had looked at my life in grade eleven, you never would have believed it was the same person taking grade twelve. To everyone at work and at school, I was having my best year yet. At home it was different; I was fighting with my parents and in my relationship. I was irritable and angry as well.
One day, after a particularly lively conversation with my teacher, I came home and threw myself on the floor. I punched the couch cushions with a fierceness few in my life had ever seen. “I HATE HIM,” I screamed. “WHY DOES HE MAKE ME SO CRAZY.”
I was talking about a teacher who constantly challenged my world view. At that point in my life, I was a proud dual citizen and obsessed with the American election. I was furious with this teacher for pointing out the flaws in my thinking. I pored over research, read transcripts of debates, and wrote constantly.
As I pounded on the cushions, I felt the frightening feeling again. It felt as though my brain was tilting in my head and everything became so shiny it was like I couldn’t see. It was as if I’d come out of my body and from the ceiling of the living room I was watching myself have a meltdown. I don’t remember very much else. I know my mother was there.
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A few years later, someone was visiting the house. It was a time in my life that everyone seemed to think was great. From the depths of depression I’d started a new project. It was a blog that was a copycat of Humans of New York. I threw myself into it. Soon I was taking 5-10 pictures a day and posting things people loved to read. My blog started to have thousands of likes. I was working at a job I completely adored and good at. I had a boyfriend I loved and even though I fought with him, I thought he was the one. I ignored all the problems popping up. I ignored all the things I was doing wrong.
But behind closed doors, my parents saw a different me. I needed a new car. My green Echo had just been condemned and the thought of no freedom was frightening to me. I’d taken the car out to the field and stomped on the roof. I’d covered it in graffiti. Everyone thought it was hilarious and creative.
The person visiting our family used to know me, but I was nervous about seeing them. I tried to ignore it and got into a discussion with my father about the need for a new car. We fought. We argued. In a moment of rage in the kitchen, I turned around by the microwave and started to scream at him. My brain felt tilty, the shininess returned and I felt like I couldn’t see. Was I leaving my body? I don’t remember much other than it felt like I wasn’t in control. When I came out of it, I could see the look on the visitor’s face. I knew they would never look at me in the same way again. And they never did.
After the fight with my father, I knew I couldn’t ever let the anger outside of me in that way again. When I felt like I couldn’t hold it in anymore, I would get in the car and drive to this wharf. I sat in this exact spot and cried many times— wondering what people would do if they knew what was inside of me.
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The two above stories are events that happened to me in the middle of being very unwell. Most people in my life thought I was doing great. I was productive, creative, and social. But behind closed doors, the people who knew me best would see other sides of me. I regret SO many things when it comes to how I treated my parents. I completely shut them out and rarely explained my behaviour to them. I know it must have been confusing, and my mother tells me that when I was diagnosed with Bipolar II, it made so much more of my life at home make sense to her. Did it excuse how I treated them? Absolutely not. But it explained WHY I reacted so strongly and it explained things that they couldn’t understand.
The thing is, I never told people about how scary it was in my brain. How I would feel as though I lost control. I would settle down, apologize, and do my best to hide it. The event of getting mad at my father in front of the visitor was a huge wake up call to me. I had never felt so disassociated. I had also felt like I had blacked out with the shiny rage that shuddered through me.
Moving to Newfoundland and Labrador was a huge turning point in my life.
After I was diagnosed, so many more things made sense. I understood that the anger often came in the middle of a mixed or hypo-manic episode. I used to be terrified of myself in those moments, and I was scared people would realize how crazy I was. I also learned that I took it out on trusted people who would still love me. I learned that no matter how out of control I felt, it was not okay to ever be so mad at people.
I do not consider myself an angry person. I've been in many situations where I feel I would be very justified to be angry, but have felt calm.
A book that was very hard to read because it helped me understand what I put people through. But it is something I would ask a future partner to read.
I still have some episodes of anger that are linked to being unwell, but it's been many years since I've lashed out at a human in the way I did before I moved-- I distinctly remember about a year after starting my medication— my friend was late for something. And as someone who likes order, I was extremely bothered by how late they were. As time ticked by, I became more and more agitated. I remember standing outside and waiting. The longer I waited, the angrier I became. I felt the shiny rage bubble up inside of me, and I started to tremble. My head ached from trying not to scream. It felt like I was seeing stars. But over and over I repeated to myself that I was not being rational. Over and over I repeated that I was sick. Over and over, I told myself that the feeling would pass. I stayed dead silent, willing myself to wait through it without exploding. I did. When my friend finally showed up, I worked to hide what had happened. After ten minutes passed, I felt calmer.
I cannot begin to explain how grateful I am to know what is happening to me now when things like this happen. I’ve had several similar experiences, but each time I repeat to myself that I will make it through. That I am irrational and the person I’m upset with does not deserve it. I have shook with the effort of maintaining control, given myself a headache, and seen stars. But I haven't let it unleash on people who don’t deserve it. Sometimes it helps to acknowledge I’m struggling to maintain control. I’ve admitted it to a trusted friend and also once on Twitter. Both times it’s helped to explain how irrational I am, but to acknowledge the explosion inside my head.
This is hard to talk about. I always worry people will be afraid of me. Those who do know, I constantly reassure them I am not violent. I worry about people using this knowledge against me. Other symptoms have been used against me. Imagine if someone wanted to destroy me and used this information? I worry all the time nobody will believe me if it was my word against someone who doesn't have a mental illness.
But all those worries aside, I can't help but think it’s damaging to others not to admit my scary symptoms. The truth is that part of being sick means horrible things can happen. If I did act out would it be okay? No. Should there be consequences and I be held accountable? Yes. But maybe if we talked about functional people who deal with the demons in their head, people wouldn’t always equate it with people who have been charged with a criminal offence.
If we all understood things before they reached such a serious state, people wouldn't suffer so much. What if society knew enough about the hidden symptoms of mental health? If there was compassion that lead to prevention? Too often people's actions, because of untreated mental illness, lead them to an underfunded and unfair justice system that does not help them get better. There are ways to deal with such unpleasant and scary episodes, but if we can't talk about them except in secret or when people have lost all hope, how can we educate and prevent?
I'm lucky. I have support, self awareness, and the means to help myself. Many in poverty and unsafe environments are alone and have no idea what is happening inside their heads. Often they are lost and without hope of help or understanding.
The stigma is real. Who wants to admit they deal with this? I’m terrified to even admit this to close friends and a future partner. In fact, I constantly worry I will never be good enough for a relationship because of my darkest struggles. Hiding them in past relationships caused damage. I never explained my behaviour, and I didn’t want to offer up excuses because I still believe how I acted was wrong.
Because I am so terrified of messing up my life, Len’s love meant more than could ever be put into words. She was with me on my darkest nights and always wanted to be by my side. I miss her every day.
These hidden and destructive symptoms meant that in the earlier part of my life, maintaining friendships was difficult. Sometimes I would become so sick that even though I hid it, I would distance myself. I’ve come a long way since then, but I still struggle with the guilt of the past and wonder if I will do it again. I try everything in my power not to, but I can never be sure.
Let’s talk about how to live safely. How to move on after making mistakes. How to not excuse things that are wrong because some actions need to have consequences. Let’s recognize the struggle of how our brains can make it hard to resist things that might hurt us and others. Let's talk about to help people who are living with demons in their head with no help in sight.
It’s time to talk about the things we hide in the name of fighting the stigma.
