I thought it was best to write my first post about something I know very well, something I live with everyday and have for over a decade. Obviously all experiences are different, and the fact I have different mental health conditions means my experience might be completely different to yours or someone you know – I will write more about the other disorders at another time, but this was the first one that came to mind when I sat down tonight. Unfortunately it is also probably one of the first things other people think of when I come to mind, which doesn’t surprise me due to my past behaviour.
So unless you have issues finding titles, you can probably guess this post is about Bipolar Disorder (also known as Manic Depressive Disorder) and the impact it has had on my life and my journey to where I am now – spoiler, if you’re currently struggling with your mental health, it does get better, much much fucking better.
As a child I spent a lot of my time being pulled out of a class and driving over to CAHMS, just to be asked random questions that meant absolutely nothing to an eight year old. I remember my family often being worried about how quiet I was, or how I would spend days crying over feeling worthless and having debilitating sadness – and then not being able to recall how sad I was as soon as the “happiness” waved over me. I put happiness in quotation marks because mania is far from what true happiness actually feels like, but when you only experience life in black and white, its the closest you can get to happy 99% of the time. Sleeping felt nearly impossible some days, I would be practically vibrating with energy – then a few days later it felt like lifting a limb was the equivalent of picking up Mount Everest.
A standout memory of mine is sitting in one of the CAHMs treatment rooms, in front of the worker, with my mum sat just outside in the lobby – she was going through the usual questions: “do you feel depressed?” I am eight years old I have no idea what you’re saying lady, “do you think about hurting yourself” yes of course, “do you think about hurting others?” I’m here because I keep hiding under tables, not because I bite people jeez. Anyway, the question that stuck with me was “how long do you feel your low points for?”, little did I know my answer completely changed the trajectory of my life for the next twelve years. I said something along the lines of “I’m not sure, maybe a few hours? or a day?” but as a young child, let alone a person with undiagnosed bipolar disorder, I had zero concept of time. Had they allowed my mother to be in the room, my results would’ve been much more accurate as she was seeing my behaviour day in day out. She knew these episodes were lasting for much longer and how intense they were. Due to that, I was told it was probably just hormonal and that we needed to keep an eye on it. Super helpful, thanks!
Throughout the next six years I was in and out of CAHMs, seeing the GP, going to private children’s therapists – my mother was desperate to help me and relieve some of the weight she knew I was feeling. Thankfully, I knew that from a very young age and it made my journey a little lighter knowing I didn’t need to be ashamed of how I was feeling. I had been diagnosed with PTSD by this organisation at around 13 years old, but not offered any useful help for it – they said I could have 6 sessions of CBT… six hours over the course of six weeks? For an extremely complex disorder? Makes sense.
If you didn’t pick up on that, I was being sarcastic – six sessions wouldn’t take the edge off let alone allow me to function like a regular member of society.
Just before my 14th birthday, I had another appointment with CAHMs for my low moods and erratic behaviour. They offered me some medication, I was desperate to feel like a normal teenager – so I accepted and started my prescription the next day. After 8 months on the first medication and going through the usual process of increasing doses, I hadn’t been feeling any better, if anything I had actually started feeling a lot more hazy and disoriented. So I came off of that particular medication to try something else, they told me I could try another medication – and I did. Again, I felt much worse and started acting a lot more irrationally which put me in danger multiple times. I was not looking after my body, barely eating, shaving my hair off because I had developed extreme paranoia – the list was endless. I went back to CAHMs, they agreed we could try another prescription. Get ready for this one.
The process of starting this medication was the exact same as usual, they slowly increased my dosage without really checking in and seeing if this was what I also felt was right for me. I have never felt more like an animal in a cage than I did when I was in the care of CAHMs. I don’t have many solid memories towards the last few months of taking this medication – I do remember one afternoon vividly: It was boiling, I was sat in my room on FaceTime to my friend and their partner and they asked how I was doing and I was just telling them about my current treatment and that I still felt like sh*t. She asked what it was that I had been prescribed, I let them know, they seemed slightly confused and asked what the dosage was – so I told her. I can still see her face dropping now, she didn’t want to alarm me in any way but asked if maybe I should do a review with my doctor and check that I was on the correct dose. Now the process for me at every single appointment at CAMHs was:
Go up to the medical room, have my height and weight checked etc and then go to the worker who was assessing me or checking in on me. These medical professionals knew I was very underweight and very tall, they knew that I would most likely need less of a substance than someone my age that weighed more than me – it doesn’t seem like a complicated issue but apparently it was.
The medication I was on was almost DOUBLE the standard dose for someone of my height and weight. Not only was this insanely dangerous, but I felt awful on this prescription – I had an increase in fatigue and suicidal ideation.
Obviously I came off of that and never went back to CAHMs again, in all honesty I was hesitant to ever speak to a doctor about my mental health again. I had also developed a fear of taking medication thanks to the help of the people who incorrectly administered that prescription.
So after years and years of struggling every single day, failing at maintaining friendships and leaning toward harmful romantic relationships, battling with self harm, not managing to leave the house for days on end, dropping out of school and then going back – only to drop out again and tank all of my grades. This had an insane impact on my self worth, I now know I’m very smart but at the time I felt like I was no good at anything. The same pattern continued into college, being extremely volatile and not looking after my body again – binge drinking and consuming and doing things that were harmful, just to feel anything else – one memory is sitting one afternoon after college and tattooing my own face, I don’t remember being able to feel anything at all until a few weeks later, then realising shit I have a considerable drawing under my eye now. Just to let you know, it doesn’t work at all, it just pushes you further down a rabbit hole.
Fast forwarding a few years, I’m an adult – my work was closing for a month for a refurbishment so I decided to go on a little trip to the nearest seaside town. Within hours of getting off of the train I had already spent half of my savings (in the midst of one of the most intense manic episodes of my life) and then within a day I had booked an room in a house to rent. That’s it, I had decided to just move into a random city, where I didn’t know ANYBODY. Don’t ask me what that was about, I genuinely could not explain it. Even though my first year in the city wasn’t exactly ideal – I thankfully met my current partner who showed me patience and kindness, but more importantly showed me I needed to have quality to my life. That I deserved to wake up and feel peace, that I didn’t deserve to live with a constant internal battle.
So alongside the support of my mum, partner and best friend – I somehow managed to speak to a doctor about some treatment for my diagnosed (18) bipolar disorder. I had never experienced the adults mental health sector, I was still scarred from the children’s services – but an angel must’ve been looking over me that morning because I spoke with the most incredible doctor who treated me with respect and understanding and explained all of my options, generally making me feel safe.
Here I am now going through treatment that works for me (medication that was carefully administered, and DBT), finally able to live and experience life – I can see colours and actually hear music. Clothes feel softer, animals are cuter, hugs feel warmer. I didn’t know that this was possible, but I have never been more grateful. There are still many ups and downs, but these are regular ups and downs – now when I drop a plate it just annoys me slightly at most, whereas before this might cause an episode that would lead to suicidal ideations. It really could be something as small as that to push me over the edge after trying to keep my head above water.
That’s about as much as I can fit into a post without writing a novella for you – but I hope this gave some insight into the mistreatment of people with bipolar disorder, and just general daily life.
See you soon,
Blake :)
