When asked to write about a significant event in my life, I found that the event I wanted to write about was not one event, but a series of episodes leading up to one very disturbing incident. My story begins almost fifteen years ago, and will take you up to the present, where I am still trying to recover.
Four and a half years ago, I was diagnosed as bipolar (also referred to as manic depressive). The process of diagnosis was a long one – years before, I had been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The cause of this was a physically, mentally, and emotionally abusive marriage. I left three years into the marriage, leaving behind my home, my family, and my two year old daughter.
I was scared, and alone. I took a Greyhound bus as far away as I could get, which ended up being California. I met a guy, I fell in love, and slowly I started the healing process. At least, that’s what I thought I was doing. In reality, I was drinking myself into a stupor every night trying to forget who I was, where I had come from, and what I had experienced. As the past started to fade away, I found that I no longer needed the person I was in a relationship with, and we broke up.
The following few months were a blur to me; I had many drunk nights crashed on someone’s couch or floor. Finally, I was to the point where I had given up; it was time for me to go home, face the music, and grow up. I was a week away from moving back to a job and an apartment when I met Jeremy. He took my breath away. We started dating, and eventually we moved in together. In December of 2004 he proposed, and I accepted. I was on my way to having a life without pain. Then my world crashed down. One weekend the next May I received a phone call from my mother; she seemed excited and out of breath. I was a little afraid at first because of the shakiness of her voice. Then she spit out the words, “I spoke to Ron!” Ron is my ex-husband. Ron is who I had been trying to forget the last seven years. Ron is who I was afraid of.
I had my first panic attack about a week after that phone call. I knew I had to talk to him; my daughter had just turned ten, and she was asking questions. She wanted to know about me and why I had left. Yet before I could talk to her, I had to speak to him. My panic attacks grew more frequent, and a week after my wedding that September, I had my first thoughts of suicide.
To understand what was happening, it needs to be explained that I was not thinking of suicide because I thought there was no reason for living. My motive was simple – I wanted to end the panic attacks. I was so frustrated; the panic attacks went from once a week, to a few per week, to a few every day. My days were spent in bed, under the covers, and with the doors locked. While I never actually attempted suicide, the thoughts were frequent enough for me to be scared. One night, I went further than I had before and went to the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out a knife.
I immediately went to my husband. I knew that I wasn’t thinking clearly and needed help. He took me to the local emergency room and after being evaluated by the psychiatrist, it was determined that I needed to be admitted into the hospital. Luckily, I was given the choice to go voluntarily instead of being involuntary admitted. I was in the psychiatric ward of Loma Linda for a week. It was terrifying at first – there were patients there that talked to themselves, that had nervous ticks; some even tried to hurt other patients. I felt so lost. As the week passed, I started going to therapy groups and the doctors started me on medication. They did evaluation after evaluation.
After my release from the hospital, things did not immediately get better. I was still having panic attacks every day, although the medication started to help me sleep at night. Over the next two months I was hospitalized two more times at different facilities. Finally, it seemed the diagnosis was right, the medication was right, and the panic attacks started to subside. I still struggle with my anxiety and panic on a day to day basis, and my medication needs to be adjusted now and then. However, I have made much progress. I am in school, going to classes, being around people I do not know; and I am doing well.
I know that my story doesn’t end here, and that I have years ahead of me to deal with my illness. I know that there will be ups and downs, and there is always the possibility that I will once again need to be hospitalized. There is a difference now, though. I have hope. I know I can make it through and do more than just survive. I can live.
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