Last June, I was diagnosed with depression and bipolar disorder. In case you aren't familiar, bipolar disorder is a chemical imbalance in the brain that causes several problems in a person's day to day life. Swift and unpredictable mood swings, extreme drowsiness or exhaustion, lack of sleep, impulsive and irrational behavior.
Why am I talking about this? Because I don't feel like Bipolar, or any mental affliction really, has enough of a voice. It's something most people don't worry about, or sweep under the rug, because it's not something they have to deal with. They meet someone struggling with it, and tell them to "Get over it." Or "Cheer up." Those two phrases in particular have sent me into so many dark pits in my head. Why? Because they're only fueling a belief that people like me struggle with:
That no one cares.
Do people care? Yes. Most definitely, and people always will, wether it be family, friends or professionals. But when you get into that low, when you sink into a pit of depression, you want to know what it feels like? It feels like whatever you do is worthless. It makes you feel like no one is there, like you're left stranded with the very same thoughts that are slowly killing you.
Whether it's Bipolar, regular depression, anxiety or panic attacks, we know that feeling. You can't escape it, or ignore it, or get over it. You look at the things around you, and you feel like it's all worth nothing. Consider that for a moment. Can you, assuming you don't have this to worry about, imagine what it would it would be like if it felt everything you did was a joke?
Could you imagine what it would be like everyone on Earth cared nothing about you? And go out of their way to avoid you? I've spent many a night swiftly changing between joy, to an intense, inconquerable rage to crying like I never had before. Nothing makes sense, nothing has a point, and life has no meaning.
I've broken objects, hit holes in walls, and gotten in fistfights with my own father because what was in me was eating me from the inside. There were things I couldn't understand, or comprehend. I nearly failed math year after year, and was fired from Subway after only a week because I couldn't keep up.
I snuck out of the house night after night on impulse. I've nearly quit jobs because of it. And I told no one. The breaking point was when I wrecked my car in April of last year. I was experiencing a high, as bipolar people do, and in my wrecklessness didn't hardly look right as I pulled out.
A larger truck hit me at 90mph and flipped my car through a man's fence. The inside of my small Chevy Cavalier exploded on impact, destroying everything inside, including the window, console and seats. I luckily lived, but when I crawled out, I tried to catch my breath, laying on my back and looking up at the sky.
I looked down to see a peice of the dashboard lodged in my left knee, and I still have the scars. I simply layed back and cried, seeing the other car roll lazily along the highway in the opposite direction, smashed to bits. The man in the other vehicle very thankfully lived, but he cut his forehead deeply, allowing large amounts of blood to pour out. His brother was there, and in my haze I was screamed at by him while lying on my back.
After going to the emergency room, I was forced to sit in the waiting room, even though I was losing blood from where I had pulled the lodged peice out of my knee. I cried and cried, but no one cared. The doctor saw me, bandaged my knee, and gave me an X Ray. I had a nasty wound on my knees and dislodged my hip. The Doctor then berated me for even coming. What did it matter to him? Nothing. I was a dumb kid who caused a wreck.
Then, on my way out, I was screamed at by the wife of the man that had hit me. I felt so bad for the other man. He didn't say a word to me, and that killed me. We had to pay all the fines, everything from the man's property I destroyed to the other vehicle and traffic fine. It didn't matter that he was going 90mph, because I was the dumb kid who caused a wreck.
My one, tiny, careless mistake brought on by mental illness nearly ended my life, and when I came home, I felt like I wanted to die. Every last bit of that was my fault, and the guilt gutted me. That day, I was less than the dirt on their shoes because I made a mistake I had no control over.
After that, I requested that I be seen by professionals.
I don't care who you are, or how you view it, mental illness is a literal prison.
Imagine day after day, your mind whispers terrible things to you, things about yourself that you hate, and absolutely no one else sees that. The ugly reality is that it takes lives, people who found no other way out, and no one around them suspected anything. It could be for any number of reasons, but if you want an example, take beloved actor Robin Williams.
God only knows what he was struggling with, and no one knew a thing. But the point of this post ISN'T to scare you or make you feel bad. It's to let you know what really happens, what it's like, and what it can do. I don't want you to say nothing about how you feel, and reach out to anyone and everyone who may need it. We, being people who struggle with mental illness, need to stick together.
Please, don't let your voices not be heard. I want any and everyone who reads this to just understand we all have the potential to pull out of our problems okay, and become better people as we conquer this. It's our fight, but it's one we'll win together.
I will never not recommend this, but here is the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline:
1 (800)-273-8255
As a team, we can do this.
No comments:
Post a Comment