Telling my story...

I feel like there has been a lot of attention lately on people with mental illness. There has especially been a focus on overcoming stigma in the world, to help people who are struggling, feel safe talking about it. We all know the statistics. We know that because of stigma, people are less likely to seek treatment, less likely to follow doctor's orders, and less likely to see a therapist. We know that there is no cure for most, if not all serious mental illness. And recovery can be so fleeting. We know that despite sensational media reports, the mentally ill are far more likely to be victims of crimes than perpetrators. These are sobering facts. Even with these sobering facts, I feel like there is still a disproportionate shortage of hope being spread about serious mental illness, and that's why I'm writing today.

I have a serious mental illness. I've lived with it for most of my life. I've been diagnosed with bipolar disorder type I. I go through extreme mood swings, varying from periods of mania, where I'm euphoric, and make really poor choices because I feel indestructible and on top of the world, to periods of severe depression, where I feel utterly worthless and like life is meaningless, and my family would be better off without me. I manage to stave the worst of these highs and lows off with medication management and therapy.

What do I know about hope and mental illness? I was once a trainwreck of a typical case. I was untreated, court committed, in and out of hospitals, and well on my way to being another statistic. I hit rock bottom in my life about 10 years ago, right when I was first diagnosed actually. It was about this time when I lost everything of value to me. I lost my car, I lost my apartment, I lost my job, my family shunned me, and I lost custody of the one thing that meant the most to me, my daughter. I literally lost my will to live at this point. I earned myself a 6 week stay at the local psych ward during this time, and I had a lot of time to reflect on just how much I'd ruined my life. I finally got out close to New Year's, and as that year drew to a close, I knew without a doubt that I was closing a chapter that had been the worst of my life, and I was never going to repeat it again.

I woke up to a new year, and I was a new woman. I was determined to get my life back together somehow. So I did. Very slowly. My family unwillingly had let me come home, and I had determined that the first thing I needed to do was find a job, so I immediately stated putting out applications. Once I got my job, I got a phone. Then, a car. I also made sure my daughter was back in my life too. After I got into the groove of working, I decided to go back to school. Now, I'm not saying this all happened smoothly, but it happened. I still continued to struggle with my bipolar episodes, but I had a lot of support from my friends and family to help me through them when they happened. I stayed mainly unmedicated during these couple of years, and it was tough, but I did it.

A few years after I had my epic breakdown, I met a really wonderful guy, who treated me amazingly, and we got married. He's been a great support to me as I've had my ups and downs with my bipolar disorder moments. We have 3 kids together, in addition to my oldest. I may have bipolar disorder, but I'm doing something right by these kids. I send my kids off to school every morning, and not one of them will leave until they get a hug and kiss, and my oldest won't go to bed without telling me I'm her favorite mommy.

Now here's the important part. I still struggle. I've been hospitalized more times than I care to admit. I'm not perfect. I still have moments where I don't know if carrying on is worth it. But I know I'm in a good place. I'm doing good things. I have a part time job that I've had for over a year. I work at a place where I actually feel like I make a difference. I write articles that I feel are helping people and have the potential to help a life. I'm constantly improving myself. I know myself, and I watch myself constantly for fluctuations in my mood, and am on top of seeing my doctor if I sense a disturbance in the force. I regularly see my therapist and am dealing with the issues that I need to overcome that have been holding me back all my life.

I may have bipolar disorder, but it doesn't have me. I'm not defined by it. I have value and I see that. I may need medications for the rest of my life, but that doesn't make me 'less than'. Considering the weight gain it causes, it actually makes me 'more than'. I jest, I jest. I like me. I've been told I'm an innately likeable person. Being bipolar doesn't take away from that. It doesn't take away the fact that I'm a very authentic and real person, or that I love serving others, or that I love writing and being creative.

There is hope after a mental illness diagnosis. I lost hope after I got my diagnosis, I think. I felt like I would just be a waste of space, and why try because I was just going to be a label that no one would ever see past. I'm happy to say that I have so much evidence to the contrary that people all around me see past that label, all the time. My boss sees past it. My coworkers see past it. My husband sees past it. My friends see past it. People who know me just see Tricia, not bipolar.  If you're struggling to find yourself in the midst of an mental illness identity crisis, I promise you, you're in there. There's nothing wrong with needing help from a support person to find yourself, or perhaps needing help from medication to find your best self. Just keep reaffirming to yourself who you are, and keep hanging on.

The is Hope After Addiction

I'm an addict. There. I said it. I'm saying it to the world. Not only am I an addict, but I have bipolar disorder as well.

Why am I telling you this?

I'm telling you this to give you hope. I was once a trainwreck. I hit rock bottom. I was homeless. I was selling myself on the street to get by. I had no real friends, no one to turn to for advice, comfort, support. All I had were my drugs.

Oh, I denied being an addict for a long time. I couldn't possible be one I rationalized. My meds were prescribed by a doctor. I didn't get them from a dealer off the streets. I got them from a pharmacy. Legally.

But the drugs were ruining my life. I managed to claw myself up from rock bottom, even with the drugs as my support. I went back to college, I got a job, I won back custody of my daughter. I got married. I had more kids. But I was only a shell of my former self.

I denied that there was a problem so well that I even believed it myself. I totally rationalized the needing of more meds than prescribed. I rationalized the burning desire for 8 PM to hit every night so I could take my Ambien. I rationalized everything away.

I explained away my odd behavior to everyone. The falling asleep at inappropriate times. The slurred speech. The glazed over eyes. It was all a side effect of perfectly legal substances. Legal substances that I was abusing.

I struggled. My bipolar disorder didn't help me at all to get over my addiction. In fact, the two disorders competed with each other for my attention. I was having an anxiety attack? Pop a few Xanax. My back was hurting? Pop a couple roxicodone.  I couldn't win for losing.

With each drug of choice, there was tipping point for me to quit it. My pain specialist prescribed me suboxone finally for my pain, and on the package it came in, it read 'to be taken for opioid addiction'. What the hell? How dare they accuse me of being an addict! Fuck them. I quit the suboxone and roxicodone there and there. I'd show them. I could manage just fine with Motrin from there on out. And I did. I've taken oxicodone a handful of times since then, and only for extreme situations (read: kidney stones).

But the addiction was still there, and I was still in denial over having it. So I continued to take the Xanax. I mean, it was prescribed, right? There was finally a day when I was super late to pick my son up from the bus stop, because I'd popped a few too many of them, that I realized things were out of hand. I still couldn't quit though. It took a hospital stay because of an overdose on them that I was finally able to stop them.

But the addiction was still there. And I still had my beloved Ambien. Oh Ambien, what a nightmare you are. I would have never quit the Ambien, until my husband left me over it. He had begged for years for me to quit taking it, but I couldn't. It wasn't until he finally left that I woke up from the foggy haze I'd been in to quit.

I quit that shit right then and there again, Cold turkey, never again. It took a few months for my husband and I to work through the varied issues at hand that we'd both contributed to the dysfunction in our marriage, but we did it.

I can now say that I've been clean from everything for 18 months. I don't even have a desire to take anything addictive. I refuse to have it in the house. I take naltrexone for my weight, but also for the added benefit that it is an opioid blocker, which discourages me from even trying to get meds I don't really need.

So what's happened in the last 18 months? I've gotten my life back. I'm in tune with what my children need. I'm able to enjoy my children more fully. We're close as a family unit. My husband and I are closer than ever. We've been married 8 years, and this past year has been our best year ever, even with the dysfunction we had to work through. I got into treatment for my bipolar disorder, and yes, the addiction as well. I thrived there. I graduated from it with a good handle on myself, and had everything in check.

Life is amazing now. I would have never realized just how wonderful life can be without struggling in the depths of hell beforehand. I just want people to know there is hope. You can rise above the addiction and be more than just an addict. You can be a writer. A mother. An aunt. An advocate. A person with worth and value. I know this is all true because that's me now. I'm all of those things and more.

I'm not saying it's easy. It's harder than hell to rise above the shame and guilt over being an addict. It took me a lot of intensive therapy and the support of a loving family to do it. And you'll need support. I definitely did. It takes a village to help an addict recover. But it can be done. I know this is true because I did it. And I know others can too. 

Stomping Out Stigma!

Stomping out stigma!

May is Mental Health Month, and I'm trying to do my part in helping stomp out stigma!

#stompingoutstigma

 

The beginning of my story...

Hi, I'm Tricia, and well, I blog about living with bipolar disorder. I'm a full time mom and a full time blogger. I have 4 adorable kiddos, and one amazing husband!

 

This is the beginning of my story, which starts here...

 

I say the beginning because my story is still unfolding. When I originally wrote this I was on my meds, doing wonderfully until a mini-disaster struck...I stopped my medications, which is something I've always had a problem with. So there is more to this story, but that's for a different blog, at a different time.

 

So my story....it’s about a bipolar woman who struggled to find herself, and still struggles to find herself occasionally...which is just one of the joys of being bipolar.

 

The story of a girl who's struggled with being misdiagnosed since she was 14, and has only recently found the right diagnosis, which means she could finally start finding the right meds. The story of a girl who struggled with being a cutter and dealt with anorexia as a teen. A story where staying stable enough to not rotate in and out of the psych ward was a battle that took years to settle between her illness, the 'real' her, and the mental health courts.

 

The story of an unstable girl who had no one to speak for her rights, let alone the ability to speak up for herself, who over time became the woman who no one walks all over and is able to speak up for her needs and desires. This is the story of a woman who cares about those walking this dark, almost unendurable path of hopelessness and despair because she's walked it too.

 

This is the story of a girl who once lost everything of value, all within the blink of an eye; her family gave up on her, her child was taken by the courts, she was evicted from her house, she had her car impounded, she lost her job, she lost her clean criminal record, and she lost even the desire to live. Everything of value to her was ripped away.

 

Over the course of a year, I’d completely hit rock bottom. I had absolutely no where to go but up. I crashed and burned and spent 6 weeks in a psychiatric unit, being watched to make sure I stayed alive. Ultimately, a decision from me had to be made. I had to start trying to live again. Because for the majority of those 6 horrid weeks, I just existed, willing myself to die.

 

So I did it. It was a small miracle, but I was released from the hospital close to Christmas time. My parents begrudgingly took me in off the streets and allowed me a place to stay. For that, I’m grateful. It was a small, but huge thing that managed to push me back into life. On New Year’s Eve, I reflected on my year, and all that had transpired, and realized that I had just survived what could only be described as sheer hell. It was absolutely the worst year of my life. Knowing that it was going to be all over in only a few short hours had a powerful effect on me. I woke up on New Years Day a new woman. I owned myself again. There were still setbacks, sometimes daily, but I eventually felt better and better more and more frequently.

 

Clawing my way up; tripping over pebble sized family issues, stumbling over seemingly insurmountable legal troubles, working through horrid rough patches that would set me back so far that giving up would feel like the only feasible option, I survived these trials.

 

There was the eventual turning point, the huge moment where I knew change had happened . Happiness had become a feeling that I recognized again. I was feeling real emotions for the first time in years and I now knew I wanted to somehow become a worthwhile member of society. I had finally overcome the pain of existence in what had seemed to be a hurtful, cold and meaningless world.

 

This is the beginning of the story of triumph over my bipolar disorder.

 

After years of suffering, I finally took ownership of my disorder and completely changed my life around. I went from being homeless on the streets with no rights to her child, no support from her family, and legal problems that would take years to untangle. The story of my life, my new life, was when I began having a life where I  truly lived in the moment. I gained a college degree, married a wonderful man, and started life as a stay at home mom to 4 wonderful children. It was a new life of becoming successful and trusting that success could last. It involved acquiring the courage to take risks while knowing I could fail, but still going for it. This is the story of a girl grateful for the new found confidence in her work, and being truly satisfied in the work she produces. This is the story of a girl finally accepting that she has the ability to succeed at anything, all she has to do is put  her mind to it.

 

This is not only a story of difficulty, hurt, suffering, and pain ,but is predominantly a strong story of hope, as well as a story that encourages advocacy, and a  strong passion for getting rid of the stigma surrounding mental illness. This is a story of caring and compassion, with a focus on the importance of volunteerism and service, and of giving back to those who are going through the darkness of mental illness themselves.

 

Ultimately this is the story of a woman who wants to give back as well, to offer support, to give people hope and to give hope to as large an audience as possible. I wanted to share a story that wasn't just an interesting read, but also a story that is emotionally charged, hopefully moving, and a story that resonates with everyone who reads it. I want you to passionately feel the emotions that bipolar disorder patients suffer with.

 

I want you to not just think, but KNOW changes need to be made, and to know, really know and understand who you're advocating for and why it needs to be done. A story that moves you to contact programs in your community and start doing something NOW. A story that has you contacting your local politician and becoming a voice for the mentally ill in your community.

 

But ultimately I hope you read a story of hope. A story that  you read and after finishing it, feel encouraged that there is hope for the mentally ill, there is treatment that works, and recovery is possible!