I Keep Telling Myself I'm Not the Desperate Type

In mid 2015, I was pretty depressed. I've always hated admitting weakness, and seeking help for my mental health definitely fell into that category for me at the time. Why couldn't I just pull myself up and find my inner strength and a litany of other idioms? I clearly had no idea what mental illness really was.

Eventually I was so miserable I had no choice but to contact my doctor. I went in for my appointment and had to fill out a sheet that rated what I'd been feeling to determine my depression and anxiety levels. I felt compelled to lie and say I was doing better than I really was; to brush it off, because it's not that bad, and people have it worse. I don't remember exactly but I think I did answer a bit dishonestly. Maybe I was worried about alarming my doctor with the heaviness. Maybe I thought it didn't deserve any attention.

My doctor is incredible and didn't hesitate to validate me. I was prescribed Zoloft and had a brief evaluation with an on-site psych doctor. This wasn't someone I could see regularly for therapy, but they gave me some very basic things to do when I became anxious, or angry. I was still loathe to say I was depressed, despite the weight I felt crushing me daily.

I was tasked with finding a regular therapist, something I hated even more than the exam. I had gone to therapy twice before. Once as my dad was dying, and I remember crying and talking about how mad I was. I never went back. I think I was ashamed by my emotional outburst. I didn't give it a chance. I thought it was supposed to be an instant fix. When it wasn't, I became skeptical of the practice altogether.

Don't just stand there, say something!

The next round of therapy was right before my wedding. I was feeling anxious, understandably. That was also probably magnified by my yet unknown mental illness. I went to two sessions with this therapist. She sat in silence a lot waiting for me to talk, but I had no idea what to say and she wouldn't lead me. After paying to feel awkward for two hours - something I can do for free, thankyouverymuch - I cancelled my next appointment and never went back to her, either.

So maybe I had a preconceived notion I had to overcome to get myself some help. I was talking to a friend of mine about needing a therapist, and he recommended someone he had seen in the past. Knowing that a close friend had used their services made me more confident that they could actually help me. Reaching out was easy because I didn't have to call, I could email. I set up my first appointment.

Not long after starting the Zoloft and therapy, I was feeling a lot better. Incredibly so. I started wondering if I could justify co-pays to my counselor when I was just telling her how good I felt. I was so happy to have found out that my chemical malfunctioning could be battled with an SSRI. It was such an easy fix!

I started meditating every day. I wasn't bothered by the little things that used to really get to me. Work was nothing but literal puppies and figurative rainbows. I loved all humans, and just wanted to help in any way that I could.

I pretty much looked like this carefree blob.

In retrospect, I should have known it was never that easy, and no one feels that damn good all the time.

I experienced 10 of the happiest months of my adult life. Then I crashed, and crashed hard. It was like the color was sucked out of the world, leaving nothing but overcast skies. Having the thing you want most in the world gifted to you, then torn from your grasping hands. I couldn't do anything. I quit being able to get off of the floor, and why had I melted down into the carpet again in the first place? I hid in my basement, content to simmer in my agony because I thought I somehow deserved it. I couldn't fall asleep or stay asleep at night, but I would nap several hours of the day away. What had happened? Where was my high?

All time low.

Bipolar doesn't like SSRIs.

Zoloft can induce mania. Or in my case, hypomania. That's the good part, the fun part, the high. It was great, while it lasted. But it didn't last forever. And after the mania, you can always count on good ol' depression to be right behind. Some people who have bipolar can be on Zoloft for years and years before the honeymoon is over. I got less than a year. Once the antidepressant stops making you feel good, it throws you under a bus. A big bus. With lots of wheels.

My motivation was zero. My dark thoughts were looming. I was being sucked into a blackness, smothered by my own emotions. I couldn't get up.

I couldn't get up.

GET UP.

Somehow, I got up.

I had a little direction thankfully. My husband had said to me on a few occasions that maybe I had bipolar disorder. My depressions were dark then suddenly I'd be talking a thousand miles an hour. This cycle had repeated itself several times over the course of our relationship. I didn't resist; it made sense. When I passed this on to my therapist, she recommended I go to the Depression and Bipolar Clinic. I was terrified to take the next step, into the unknown. I was also aware that if I did nothing, things were looking pretty bleak for me. I couldn't go on living like this. I honestly wasn't sure I could go on living.

My default state: sad in the bathtub.

I felt such relief when I was diagnosed with bipolar. It was an answer. A reason, something that could be treated. I wasn't broken, I was sick. I had an illness that I had no control over, so I could stop blaming myself when my brain didn't do what I wanted it to. Yes, it's frustrating as hell. I fight it every day. I bite back the irrational irritability, I steady my shaking hands, I slow down my speech, I wrestle with the depression. With meds it's manageable. Not cured.

There is no cure.

I'm making my peace with that, a little more each day. Sometimes I love my pills, sometimes I hate that I'll have to take them the rest of my life just so I can experience how an average person feels on a bad day. Not all days are great. I cherish the good ones a little more.