I’ve often thought back to pre-diagnosis days. Retrospect is, as always, 20/20, and I do my best not to blame myself, the doctors or my support base at the time. But when I look back one or many of these role players should have joined the dots. I share this in the hope someone will stumble upon this and will be spared the torment of being mis- or un-diagnosed.
The nitty-gritty of why I know now that I’ve been symptomatic bipolar since at least high school I’ll spare you. I’d call that time a period of ‘maybes’ anyway. It wasn’t really until university that someone should have called it.
Earning my undergrad was tough. So tough in fact I almost didn’t graduate at all. To say I was of unstable temperament would be the understatement of my lifetime. In a good week, and I say that with some reservation, I appeared to be thriving: attending all my lectures, getting great grades, but all this was happening while I wasn’t sleeping a wink and I’d snap, easily, in group settings when frustrated by the seemingly glacial pace of people.
If mania were a scale these were the mild weeks, there were as many totally frenetic weeks where frustration met physical harm to myself at times, several nights of sleeplessness would manifest in delusional conspiracies etc. ect. Long story short I shared these with a GP and was slapped with the ADD label (not for the first time in my life).
For a while the Ritalin would do the trick: I’d be focused, interested in making friends, on an even keel when socializing. Then it would end: abruptly. Weeks of 100% attendance at lectures would turn into near zero due almost entirely to being bed-bound and seemingly unable to exercise any semblance of self-care.
What do we do when we’re depressed? Everything, except self-medicating, stops: including taking the Ritalin for several weeks. At some point during these episodes I’d self-diagnose myself with clinical depression and present myself at a psychologist. Surprise, surprise 30 minutes later I’d be confirmed clinically depressed and sent on my way to a prescribing doctor armed with a letter indicating that I was a good candidate for some or anti-depressant.
[Pro-tip: see a real psychiatrist first – they can prescribe therapy if it’ll help. Your average therapist doesn’t actually have any medical training…]
Again, these would work for a while – if by work we mean I was physically able to leave my room and eat something. I cannot remember a single time the anti-depressants did more than that in resolving my depression. They brought me to barely functional for a couple of weeks….
And then shit would really pop off.
I’d suddenly find myself operating at a thousand miles an hour. Everything was interesting. I’d attend lectures I wasn’t even taking for credit. Going out with me to the clubs was a bizarre experience for my friends at the time, I imagine. I was well and truly the life of the party. Or maybe I wasn’t and that was an extension of the delusions of grandeur that accompanied these times.
The delusions were far reaching: from being overly confident in my ability to achieve great grades with very little effort to being utterly convinced I was such a catch that there was no one, and I mean no one, who was off limits to try take home. What makes these delusions difficult to identify is that sometimes they played out – the latter more so than I care to admit here. Sleep? Forget it.
And such was my cycle at varsity: deeply depressed, medicated to the gills, triggering bouts of serious mania.
For the most part I considered my time at university a fruitful and happy one. Knowing what I know now though: it was a clusterfuck. I wasted years of my life studying something I was interested in but hardly any good at and made friends that I would later alienate so aggressively I left university with about as many friends as I have fingers on one hand.
I have a great many regrets about this time of my life.
Fast forward a few years: the first few weeks into my diagnosis were truly incredible. The medication for treating bipolar is like most other meds for the head: they take a while to work like it says on the box.
For several weeks after my initial diagnosis the medication appeared to be working well for me. In fact at one point I recall calling my dad just to exclaim that “I’ve missed out loving life, my whole life.”. That’s still mostly true. Unfortunately that initial success was short lived.
A few weeks into is particular treatment and I found myself checking myself into a facility. While that sounds like the total opposite of what should have happened it was a necessary step in finding the right medication. Under observation for near on two weeks I left that facility feeling for the first time in a long time that I had my feet on the ground.
That’s the nature of the human science experiment that is being alive. People respond differently to all manner of medications and finding the right combo can, and is for most, and long and arduous journey. It’s a journey I hope I never have to do again, but it’s likely I will. As life goes on, circumstances change and the chemistry of life is forever altering as we age. And that scares me a bit. Knowing that at anytime things could go to shit isn’t great.
For now though I’m taking my medication and enjoying life as I suspect most people do. And for as long as this ride lasts I’m going to make the most of it and quit worrying about the what ifs.
