Hi, my name is Katie. I have bipolar disorder.
Oh, you thought this was a food blog? Sorry, not my area of expertise. I'm more of a food eater instead of a food creator, but I appreciate the support nonetheless.
But, yes, I have bipolar disorder. I still haven't fully grasped what that means, even though I identify with most, if not all, of the symptoms. I've shown signs for years, but I never thought it was something more until last October.
I remember waking up on a lovely mid October morning, with the birds chirping and sun shining and people people-ing. Except I felt weird. Like my brain was in two halves and couldn't match up. I easily talked myself out of classes for the day (the first time of many days following) and proceeded to have what I dubbed "The Best Skip Day Ever!" exclamation point included. But it continued for many days after, only the feelings got worse. I would wake up in the middle of the night with thoughts of impending doom, so I packed an "In Case of Zombies: Emergency Kit" so I would feel safer. I stopped leaving the house, I stopped bathing, I stopped eating. I became the zombie I feared.
But randomly, I would get these bursts of manic energy, where I would get out of bed and do ridiculous tasks. I reorganized the books on my bookshelf by color, I wrote thank you cards to my 5th grade teachers, I cooked an entire bag of frozen biscuits.
That last one was the kicker, believe it or not.
Have you ever zoned out and then sort of "woken up" and noticed you were pouring too much coffee, or drifting off the road, or what have you? That's what happened to me. I woke up while eating the last of the 24 frozen biscuits, almost 2 weeks after cooking them. I hadn't talked to anyone, hadn't left the house except for work, only then to come home and sit on my couch and stare at the wall until I went to bed. I had become a shell. And what do you do when you know something's wrong? You go to the doctor.
Going to the doctor for something wrong in your mind is an odd experience. The nurse takes you back and begins small talk.
Nurse: "What brings you in today?"
Me: "Well, I've been feeling weird lately, and I just wanted to talk to someone about it."
Nurse: "What do you mean 'feeling weird?'"
Me: "I've been skipping classes and thinking some not so nice thoughts and I might have stopped bathing for a bit."
Nurse: "Oh, well, that's okay... Just sit in here."
So, those conversations went suuuuuper well every time. Thankfully, my neighborhood nurse practitioner is amazing and listened to me laugh/cry my symptoms out. I told her how I would drive to my college and sit in the car, tight chested and gasping for air whenever I tried to head in. I told her how I wanted to get hurt, because I felt something wasn't right in my head, but no one took me seriously, so I wanted something on the outside to reflect how I felt inside. I told her how I dreamed these crazy intense dreams of darkness and sorrow and how I woke up crying without knowing why. I told her how I wanted to punch through mirrors and break dishes and destroy relationships. I told her how I wanted to scratch through my skin, to feel pain, to relieve pressure. I told her how sometimes I would feel amazing, like I ran miles and defeated Voldemort single handedly and road in the front of Goliath all at the same time. But her response was not what I had in mind.
"Have you ever heard of bipolar disorder?"
Well, yeah, I had heard of it. But was that something I should be worried about?
After a quick questionnaire where I answered yes to every question, I was diagnosed.
Bipolar Disorder.
I received medication and a referral to a therapist, but I didn't think anything was really wrong. I took the pills, I dubbed the crazy period "Biscuit Time," ignored the therapy and went on with life. And everything was fine, until a month ago.
Spring Semester. March. I woke up to bird chirping, the sun shining, people people-ing, but I felt weird. Okay, so maybe I had missed a few days of medicine. Surely it wasn't that bad... right? Except this time, when I "woke up" I had a knife in my hand and cuts on my arm. This was bad. I started my medicine again, but I couldn't shake the feelings. I felt lost and out of control and I would ignore everyone and try and try and try to be normal, God please let me be normal.
But I wasn't. I'm not. I have a mental illness. A chemical imbalance that causing my synapses to fire differently than others. I have to take certain chemicals, repressors, and inhibitors because my body can't do it on its own.
I went back to the clinic to talk to my physician, and because I was going "round the bend" if you will, it was suggested I spend a few nights in a psychiatric health ward, which is a blog for a totally different time. After my stay, I came out fragile. My skin felt sensitive, my body shook, I was overly emotional, and I didn't know how to handle myself. So I went home to my parents. I got rid of all of my stress and hid from my responsibilities. I got a therapist, who recommended I take some time to "find myself," to "get a new hobby," to "learn how to cope with stress."
I'm in the process of accomplishing those things. I don't know who I am. I know I am not my illness, but I have an illness. I know what I do could be because of my disorder, the words I say, the anger I feel, the thoughts I have. I am in the middle of One Big "Biscuit Time" where I really don't want to be a real human being, but part of the recovery process is learning to work through it. Don't talk yourself out of things. Embrace who you are and all of that sappy mumbo jumbo.
I have a problem, but that's okay. I can live with it.
