The diagnosis that turned my world upside down and why that may be okay

Ashley Coker
Sep 1, 2018 · 5 min read

Anyone who knows me well knows I like to be in control of my own story. I pick and choose which parts of me to share with the world, which parts I am okay with my boss or my third cousin or my high school math teacher stumbling across on social media.

Today, instead of trying to control my story, I’m going to offer it to you with open arms. Sometimes other people need to see the raw parts of you more than you need to keep them bandaged up.

I was just diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Bipolar II, rapid cycling, to be more specific. It is still very raw.

This is probably where I should tell you about the differences between bipolar I and bipolar II or explain what rapid cycling means. I should probably add statistics and numbers to illustrate how common a bipolar diagnosis really is or how it runs in families. But honestly, I’m too exhausted from living like this to do your research for you. Google is just one click away.

Instead of educating you, I want to tell you what my life looks like and how that makes me feel. Because you or someone you love may feel something similar, and it is a really lonely place to be.

When I was 5 years old, I was diagnosed with OCD and handed my first Xanax prescription. My pediatrician didn’t suggest therapy. He didn’t ask many questions. He just heard that I was afraid of dying and liked to wash my hands a lot, so he made an assumption and gave my mom some pills to make me stop hyperventilating.

That is pretty much what my relentless fight for mental wellness continued to look like for the next 18 years. When it became clear that what I was dealing with was most certainly not OCD, general practitioners, psychiatrists and counselors all agreed: Something was wrong. Probably an anxiety disorder, even though I couldn’t check enough DSM boxes to get a more specific diagnosis.

So, for almost two decades, I was on and off different drug cocktails: SSRIs, benzos, even an antihistamine or two to mix things up. Anything to take the edge off my racing thoughts, constant nervousness, obsessions and inability to sleep. Nothing really worked, except the Xanax and Ativan, but that is no way to live. Most things just made it worse.

That’s because I do not have anxiety. I have bipolar. That “anxiety” was actually hypomania and those antidepressants were just adding fuel to the fire.

A lot of people who hear about hypomania think it sounds enjoyable. It makes you productive and quick and super social. Hypomania DOES feel good. Until it doesn’t anymore.

It feels good to get more accomplished in one day than most people do in a week. It feels good go out five nights in a row without feeling tired. It feels good to be quick on the draw with a joke.

It feels good to write this right now without having to stop and search for the words. It feels good to not have to try.

More often than not though, hypomania, for me, feels like being trapped on a hamster wheel. It feels like I am running and running, but no matter how fast I run, I can’t keep up with my thoughts. My mind does not feel like my own during these episodes. I have no control over my thoughts. They rush in, unprompted, and they don’t leave until they want to. It doesn’t matter what I want. It doesn’t matter if I am at work or trying to go to sleep or even just trying to listen to someone else talk. Hypomania, for me, feels like being shaky and nervous and constantly on edge.

Hypomania, for me, also feels like obsessive-compulsive symptoms. My psychiatrist says this is somewhat uncommon, but it has been noted in patients with bipolar in the past. Especially those who experience rapid cycling. Most often, my hypomanic thoughts are varied and fast and bright. But when I begin to experience the obsessive-compulsive symptoms, they become targeted and demanding and usually, dark. This is when I feel my worst. This is when I have most feared death and most wanted to die.

The other side of the bipolar coin, depression, is exactly what it sounds like. It’s basically your garden variety depression, except way harder to medicate and way less predictable. It took me a spectacularly long time to realize that I have depressive episodes. That’s because depression feels like coming down, and coming down feels like a relief. I’ve since learned that depression is actually my baseline. I just assumed it was everyone else’s too.

I assumed everyone struggled to get out of bed most days. I assumed everyone had to try as hard as I did just show up and sit at a desk for eight hours. I assumed everyone felt the deepest levels of despair on a day-to-day basis. I assumed being depressed was just not being “anxious.”

I didn’t think twice about it when I failed three classes in 7th grade because I genuinely could not force myself to stop crying long enough to do my homework every night. I didn’t think twice when I somehow “turned it around” and effortlessly placed in the academic top ten in 8th grade.

I didn’t think twice when the same exact thing happened again my senior year of high school and then again my junior year of college. I just wasn’t trying hard enough, right?

Looking back, there have been times when I was depressed or hypomanic for months at time. Right now, I seem to be cycling between the two about every two weeks. I don’t know when that will change. I never know how long an episode will last. This is scary, and it makes me feel out of control. It makes me feel unreliable. It makes me feel like I’m not someone worth betting on.

Right now, I am learning how to cope. I am learning how a new diagnosis plays into my already-formed life and habits and struggles. It is more difficult than I could ever describe to someone in words.

A great friend and all-around A+ human who happens to share a similar diagnosis graciously reminded me that I am who I have always been. That is true. A diagnosis cannot change that, but this diagnosis did make me take a closer look at who I have always been. What I found is that you can convince yourself that a lot of atypical thought patterns and behaviors are “normal” if they are all you have ever known.

I also found that maybe it’s okay to not be “normal.” Maybe it’s okay to like yourself even if your brain doesn’t work the same way everyone else’s does.

I have always been Ashley, and I have always been programmed to develop bipolar disorder. I was born this way. I am who I am both because of that and despite it. The only thing having a new, accurate diagnosis does is allow me to take steps toward feeling better. That is a good thing.

This diagnosis could be the best thing that has ever happened to me. I only hope you can see that too. I’m still me. I’m just me with a shot at feeling okay for the first time in my life. If you feel anything about any of this, please feel happy for me. I finally have some of the power back.