Six months ago things were fine, the next day I was out of my mind. The thoughts racing through my head at a hundred miles an hour. Suicidal thoughts that would not seem to leave me alone. This was not me. I grew up in a loving family, I’m in a band, I’ve got a wonderful girlfriend. Why am I suddenly sleeping every day and having these suicidal tendancies? I decided to run away from all of it. I packed my backpack with a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and a bible and hit the road. I didn’t have a destination. I didn’t even have a care in the world about my friends, or family, or what was going to happen to me. Thoughts were fuzzy and scattered. One minute I was thinking about jumping in front of a train, the next minute I would laugh at myself for having such a thought.
After a few days on the road, I woke up one morning completely thrown off by my surroundings. I was cold, hungry, alone by the river. My mind felt like toast and I decided it was time to connect with someone. I showed up at my music teacher’s house and explained to him that I had found God. His face told me that he thought I was joking. But the more I spoke with him, the more concerned he got, and the next thing I knew my grandma was there to pick me up. After many worried hugs and shoulder shakes, I was taken to the hospital and diagnosed with bipolar disorder.
Manic depression is no joke. I’m on a ton of medications that make me feel groggy and weird even though my thoughts have cleaned up for the most part and I sort of feel like me again. I’m still in a band, but my fellow members are always concerned about how I’m feeling or whether or not I’m going to run away again. My family members aren’t quite sure how to deal with bipolar living either. The pills are costing them money, and they keep searching for an end all to this mess. If I forget to take my medication, my mind starts to form crazy loops and people around me get a little scared because I become unpredictable. I’ve started going to church every week because I want to ask God for help through this. I wish living bipolar didn’t entail a bunch of pills that take me out of myself. But then again I’m not myself when I don’t take the pills either. It’s hard!
I just have to live one day at a time. My family and I have dinner together every evening and talk about normal family things. Like how our day was. How class was. How is the band doing? Do we have a new set list yet or any gigs coming up? But in the back of my mind there is a constant inner dialogue telling me that everyone is judging me for being bipolar. I wonder if they’re scared of me. They think I could crack at any moment. And the sad thing is that I could.
Adjusting to bipolar living is a hard thing to do after leading a semi-normal life for eighteen years. But like Father Walsh tells me, “A life of struggle should teach compassion.” So I try to be understanding and compassionate. I work real hard every day to override my aweful feelings of not fitting in. My music is getting better and my drive is getting stronger. With the help of my friends and family, this bipolar living will ultimately fuel me on the path to a meaningful existence.
