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At 19, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. From that point, life was a struggle. My moods were all over the place. I never knew what to expect. In my late 20s, I decided that I wanted to take my life. In the end, I just couldn’t do it.

After being committed to inpatient treatment on two separate occasions, and losing every job I ever had, I had no clue where my life was headed. Anyone that I dated dumped me due to my mental health condition. Eventually, I met the man that would become my husband, and we were married in August of 2001. He was there for me when nobody else would take the risk. In 2006, we moved into our first home and things seemed to be looking up.

Life changed drastically when my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer in September of 2007. I promised her I would be at her side for everything; and I was. She passed away in January of 2008, and my life fell to pieces. I was filled with grief that I was unable to overcome.

In June of 2013 depression hit me like a brick. Overwhelmed by sadness and grief, the suicidal thoughts were taking over. I missed my mom immensely. I couldn’t cope with my life any longer. I cut myself and took an entire bottle of pills. Sensing something was wrong via text, my husband came home and took me to the ER. I stayed in the hospital on suicide watch for five days. I was then told that the state was having me committed.

When I was released, I promised myself that I would never put my husband or my family through any of that again. I decided that if I told my story, it might help people. By helping others, I knew I would be helping myself. I began writing a blog detailing my struggles with bipolar disorder.

People from all over the world have written me to thank me for coming forward. My writing has been the best therapy I have ever known. I continue to write my blog, and I’m extremely proud to be able to say that I’m now a published author. I consider myself an advocate for mental health.

Life is much better, but I need to be realistic. I will never know life without bipolar disorder, and medication will forever be a part of my life. I am OK with that. If anyone I know isn’t, I don’t need them in my life. I’m taking care of myself for the first time. I’ve lost a lot of friends and even family members because of my suicide attempt. Some people consider me selfish.

I’m here to tell you that suicide has nothing to do with being selfish. Having bipolar disorder doesn’t make you selfish. Allowing yourself to find happiness doesn’t make you selfish. I’m 43 years old, and I’m living proof that you can succeed despite your mental health condition. It will take a lot of work, and you will stumble more often than you sprint, but it can be done.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

Over the years, medications changed, counselors changed, locations changed, but the condition was always there—relentless. Bipolar disorder takes me to a place I call the Nothingness. Sometimes my thoughts are like a game show wheel that some outside force spins again and again. Sometimes, a darkening of my senses descends, causing my thoughts to fold and turn inside out. Thoughts come in slower and slower waves until they threaten to disappear entirely. It has been a daily battle for over 40 years, a battle I hope I will win and then someday die of natural causes and not the Nothingness.

Five months ago, my husband and sanctuary of love died of cancer. I feared the worst for myself. I made a list of hospitals that were okay and those that weren’t for when I fell apart—I was ready for the end. But that isn’t what happened.

When Bill once passed out during chemotherapy treatment, I called my brother Jim who lived four hours away. He said, ”I am on my way.” Ten days later Bill died at home. At that moment, a sensation something like energy rushed into my chest. It was a feeling of power and love and it filled me. I experienced a shift in how I viewed myself. And with that love and power came a calmness.

Jim helped me pack up and move to Gig Harbor to live with him. I have my own room, which is my art studio plus a bed. I wake up every morning with a great ache at Bill’s physical absence, but there is also gratitude that fills me and gives me strength. What Bill’s love taught me is that I am loveable, creative, smart, and funny. My mind is grounded in reality and the Nothingness has not swallowed me as expected. Daily I do what everyone who survives bipolar disorder does: I take my medications, manage my stress, create art, give of myself to new friends and my spiritual community, and, most surprising to me, I continue to draw on the strength of Bill’s love that still lives in my soul. This is not my end.

The Nothingness was like a wind that blew and bent me as though I were only a tiny tree. However, the years of persistence and the love of others have helped me grow into a mature tree; now that wind only flutters my leaves. A new artist friend said to me over tea, “You are so strong, so full of joy and peace.” I realized that no one had ever said that to me before. I felt that, yes, I can survive and grow in this world. I feel alive. I feel gratitude and that sustains me.

Sheri is the author of the Dark Side of the Mood and creates stuffed animals she calls Unity Babies to teach the concept of Unity in Diversity. She has been a member of the Baha’i faith for over 45 year and holds a master’s degree in health education and minors in art and dance.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

One of the most emotional moments of my life was when I decided I was staying—when I took suicide off the table. I was stable for the first time in years, and as I stood in the shower in complete darkness, hot water and shampoo running down my back, I had a moment of clarity. I realized I was going to fully experience life with all its difficulties, heartache, monotony, delight, joy, and excitement. I committed to keep myself here, and in that moment, I cried tears of sadness and relief and strength.

I was 18 years old—a freshman in college—when I was hospitalized for the first time. For a year I had been taking different antidepressants which sent me into what my doctors recognize now as a mixed state. The on-call doctor spent about 15 minutes with me, told me I had major depression, switched me to a different antidepressant, and released me after 72 hours. A year later, after several more medication changes, I was back in a different hospital.

By this time, my life had almost completely collapsed. One month I felt like the most brilliant, productive, successful person on earth. The next month I was suicidal, convinced I was worthless and pathetic. I dropped out of college and moved back home. I slept most of the day and was suicidal during my few waking hours. All of the big dreams I once had for myself seemed completely unattainable. My mom would watch me sleep and cry, wondering if I would ever recover.

Unlike the first time I was hospitalized, the doctor at the second hospital spent several hours with me. At the end of my evaluation, I was diagnosed with bipolar II disorder. I learned that the antidepressants I was taking had likely made my moods more erratic and that my desire to do everything was not just a personality trait—it was hypomania. I spent the next few days talking with other patients—some of the strongest, most resilient people I have ever met— about their experiences.

Now, after years of therapy and the right combination of medications, I have my bachelor’s degree, live in Washington, DC, and have been able to pursue a fulfilling career. I am married to my high school sweetheart, who has been with me since the beginning of this journey and has loved me even when I felt unlovable. I lead a normal life, though I am aware of my bipolar disorder every day and often struggle with my moods, even in periods of relative stability. I am hyper-vigilant about changes in my sleep patterns, which often foreshadow a change in my mood. I am not the same person I was before bipolar disorder; the ongoing journey of recovery has made me stronger than I ever could have been without this illness.

Many people don’t like the word recovery to describe relief from the symptoms of a mood disorder; they prefer remission. I understand that. Even after diagnosis, I have changed medications too many times to count. When I’m depressed or overly energized, my doctor will add a medication, and when I’ve leveled out, I’ll go back to my baseline routine.

My doctors have always celebrated my successes with an asterisk. When you live with a mood disorder, there is always the possibility of relapse in the back of your mind. There is no cure for this condition, and I will struggle with it for the rest of my life. But to me, recovery means being able to live a normal life without the weight of the asterisk attached to my chest.

One of the most important concepts I have taken from treatment is that of self-efficacy—a belief in one’s own ability to overcome challenges and succeed in the face of adversity. Managing bipolar disorder—learning to take the positive things it has to offer and succeeding in spite of the negatives—has given me more pride, strength, and self-efficacy than any other accomplishment. I have weathered the most violent storms, and I’ve seen they always pass. When darkness comes again, I will keep hanging on for that inevitable shimmering light.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

I’ve always excelled in everything I’ve tried. In grade school, I swam on the YMCA swim team. Every time I dove into the pool to race or practice racing, I beat my own best time. But no one knew how anxious and depressed I was; I had very few friends. Even after graduating from high school as a member of the National Honor Society and then college with summa cum laude honors, I was still very sad and anxious. I’d also functioned on very little sleep in college and didn’t understand why.

I moved to another state after college graduation, trying to run away from my depression and anxiety, but that only made things worse. I had a really tough time managing a full-time job and started to see a psychiatrist. One day, I was at rock bottom and called my doctor, saying I wanted to hurt myself. Ten minutes later, the police were knocking on my door. They took me to the hospital and I don’t remember much after that. My parents were called and my family was great about taking me back home to live them. (I hadn’t been an easy child to raise—the illness was there and there wasn’t a diagnosis.)

Once home, I had a really significant stay at a hospital that lasted for a month. I thought I was someone else entirely and was convinced that the police were coming to get me. It was there that I was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder with psychosis not otherwise specified. I was paranoid, thinking that the nurses were trying to poison me with my meds. They finally gave me injections to help me feel better. I would not eat, so they kept up my nutrition with an IV.

My road to wellness actually began when I did get on medication. This was the very first step in a long process—I’ve tried many treatments. The medication helped bring me out of a psychotic state and since then I’ve used all kinds of therapies, medications, and ECT to get to where I am today. Looking back, I think the scariest part of my journey was when I didn’t know who I was anymore or who I could trust. But I wouldn’t trade my experiences for the world because I’m proud of the person I’ve become.

I currently work as a peer advocate, supporting people as they learn more about themselves. It’s the best job I’ve ever had. I can relate to them and talk about what has worked for me. Maybe someone will follow my lead and feel more positive about their life. Today, just as I’ve always done, I’m constantly trying to improve.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

To put it mildly, my upbringing was pretty tempestuous. As a result, I developed woefully low self-esteem—I was inherently not good enough, no matter the situation—and grew from a reclusive young boy to an adult who struggled for a solid identity. I did not have meaningful relationships because I was never fully there. I could not accept love because if someone loved me, there had to be something wrong with them.

In spite of the vicious voice that had set up shop in my brain, somehow, somewhere, deep in my soul, I had a sense that I was good. This slight glimmer of hope gave me the strength to contact a psychologist and it was a crucial moment in my life. Through sessions with my therapist, I learned that I had clinical depression and that I was not an unlovable loser.

It’s said that knowledge is power. Now that I know about depression, I perceive it as Enemy No. 1. I have learned that the depression and the depressive voice constantly talking in my head are NOT ME. Fundamentally, I am optimistic and, at my core, a happy person. It’s just the crippling thoughts that cloud my perspective.

Throughout my life, and in spite of my depression, I have maintained a strong commitment to a fulfilling life. I knew there was more to it than the ugly thoughts that ran rampant in my mind—I knew it. I also knew I had a fight on my hands, a fight for a happy, purposeful, goal-achieving life.

Today I am ready to prosper and take on life’s challenges. I have been blessed with the love of my girlfriend for nine years. For me, this is monumental—a loving relationship is something I have never, ever had in my life. She provides a view that is opposite to my depressive thoughts. She encourages me and reminds me that my depression is not me. It is a blessing to be loved and accepted; from this place we can grow.

As I have moved forward in my life, I have developed tools to combat my mental enemy. First of all, it takes constant vigilance to overcome the negative voices. I frequently check my thoughts, asking myself “Is this thought congruent with the healthy goals I pursue”, and I build my resolve by meditating and writing in a journal. I cannot say enough about how effective meditation has been in my life. The practice of stilling the mind goes a very long way in identifying who you truly are. Meditation, coupled with journal writing, has given me clarity and hope for the future.

I will need this clarity, as I have been diagnosed with stage four cancer. Now, more than ever before, I need my meditation. I cannot afford to have my precious days clouded by depressive voices. I am a survivor and I know I will overcome the challenges that this cancer will bring. I know this to be fact because I am able to still my mind and move forward with dignity and grace.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

One day, a little more than three years ago, I was lying in my mother’s bed curled up in the fetal position. It would have been one thing if I were six years old and afraid to go to school. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. The reality was that my mother was away in England and, at age 56, I was avoiding the world and hiding in her bed!

My life had totally collapsed. True, I was the father of a wonderful nine-year-old daughter and was married to a successful professional, but I constantly compared my failure to her success. I had been hospitalized five times for refractory depression and had tried ECT three times after many trials of medication had failed. I had also been in psychotherapy with a prominent psychiatrist but saw no improvement at all. I truly felt hopeless, helpless, and worthless. All I could do was hide in shame and try to disappear.

Sometime later, my marriage broke up and at one point family members insisted I go back to the hospital. Reluctant and terrified, I finally agreed and tried another course of ECT (my fourth). Seven weeks later, I was discharged after 20 ECT treatments, only slightly improved and still scared to death. But then there was a miracle—I discovered a DBSA support group right in my own backyard! That was when my attitude and my mood began to change.

I went to my first DBSA meeting and suddenly felt understood, supported, and cared about. I didn’t feel judged, wasn’t told what to do or how to do it. I had finally come home—not to the one I grew up in but the one I had yearned for. Even more importantly, I recognized that I no longer needed to see myself as a victim, but rather as someone who had begun a journey toward recovery and might ultimately be able to connect with, help, and perhaps even inspire others.

I started by reaching out to other members of our DBSA support group. Then I decided to further my education and training and became a certified peer specialist, offering services I now offer in several settings. Beyond that, being an ambassador for DBSA has become a mission. I am also a part-time driver for Uber and have discovered that many of my passengers are not turned off by my story but instead are fascinated, respectful, and even inspired. I have made referrals to various DBSA support groups in our area to my passengers.

Recently, through my DBSA support group, I had the privilege of telling my story of pain and recovery. I spoke to psychiatrists at a distinguished medical school and also at a prestigious convention. Each of these experiences has enhanced my confidence and self-esteem.

This brings me to the present. On Saturday, June 25, I turned 60 and decided to celebrate my life and recovery by planning and organizing a birthday party for my family and friends, but primarily for members of my DBSA support group. I decided to assist DBSA in its fundraising effort as part of the Art Van Charity Challenge and found the courage and confidence to request donations in my honor—something I would never have done in the past. I’m proud to say that our small party group raised over $12,000. I’ve continued my work for DBSA with a Tribute page.

If I could turn my life around with the loving support of a DBSA support group, so can you. If you need a little encouragement, you can contact me via a letter or note to the DBSA national office and I’ll be in touch.

That’s my story.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

I define my life by one never-ending belief: I believe in me. That belief has guided me from hell into a fulfilling life based on resolve, personal growth, and learning.

During my school years, I left a trail of clues about my depression through photographs. Family pictures and class photos always showed me on the very end of a row with my eyes downcast, or me leaning away from my family with a look of unhappiness. High school, however, seemed to spark a turnaround. I was class president, in the top ten percent of my class, and the recipient of scholarships. I was Big Man on Campus!

College began a different kind of turnaround. In 1970, I experienced the first of what was to be six, three-month hospitalizations, marked by trips to the “quiet room”, my arms and legs shackled to the bed, a suicide attempt (the most successful failure of my life), and, in total, seven hospitalizations that sapped away a year-and-a-half of my life. Much of this was the result of ineffective treatment because of a misdiagnosis of paranoia schizophrenia. I fault no one. My behaviors could have easily been translated into that diagnosis by any professional.

In 1978, I received what I consider a gift: the diagnosis of bipolar disorder. With medication and a dedicated psychiatrist, my life turned a corner. I found the positive me. My seventh hospitalization lasted only two weeks instead of three months. I also landed a job as an advertising representative for a daily newspaper. The meds worked. I was growing.

These changes did not come easily. I worked diligently with my psychiatrists and took my meds without fail. I held several jobs, but none for long. I dated and married while still misdiagnosed; the marriage lasted nine months. Nothing seemed to stick for very long except my condition. Then I found the best medicine—I met a pretty, smart, lively young woman. We married after a year and we’re now entering our thirty-sixth year of matrimony. Cindy loves me for who I am; for both of us, my diagnosis doesn’t define me. We have two wonderful sons and life is good.

I started an organizational development business from which I retired seven years ago. Since then, I’ve acted, performed stand-up comedy, and I’m on the storytelling circuit. But perhaps my true legacy has come from my depression. I have founded groups for men dealing with transitional issues in retirement. We strictly avoid offering therapy. That said, we disclose issues of personal importance and bond through breakfasts and social activities. Many said this wouldn’t work—I’d heard that before! We currently have 12 groups of 130 men.

So, what did I learn? Simply this: to never, ever stop believing in myself. I never stopped taking meds and I never missed an appointment with a therapist. Today, I love growing and learning, even at 66. I always believed I would live a good life and I have. You can too!

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

I have always loved technology. I even go as far as saying, “My mind (aka my CPU) is my favorite and most powerful muscle.” But sometimes the source of our greatest strength can also be that of our greatest weakness.

Shortly after I graduated from college, my CPU overheated for the first time and I was admitted to the hospital. I thought I was there because I was having trouble sleeping and eating. What I had not realized was that I hadn’t eaten or slept in over 72 hours.

While in the hospital, I got a long distance phone call from my cousin who was stationed in Japan. He said one thing that helped to calm my panic: “Please listen to the doctors because they are really doing their best to help you.” And it was my trust in my cousin that got me to take my first dose of medication.

I spent the next 13 years resisting the idea that medication was very important in managing my bipolar disorder. I could never come up with anything better than “there has to be a way other than medication to beat this condition!” I had many conversations with my therapist and psychiatrist. Multiple times, I rolled the dice by stopping the medication without telling them. I would be fine for a while and then, like clockwork, I would be back in the hospital.

Later I came to realize that every time I took my medication, I felt like I was admitting that there was something wrong with me. I had never had this same feeling with taking cold medicine or using my asthma inhaler. So why with my mental health? My therapist told me, “The medication is used to help us have a productive conversation on how to best be able to learn the skills to manage the condition.”

In hindsight, I realized I would always stop taking the medication when it was working best. I thought it was degrading and hindering—even killing—my potential. I now realize that it enables me to realize my potential and push my limits in a healthy way.

It took me over a decade to find the right support plan and team. I now have a healthy relationship with my therapist, psychiatrist, and my medication. Meditation, exercise, and journaling helps to complete my self-care plan.

The New York Times wrote an article on the importance of family support in the treatment of bipolar disorder and featured my family’s story of dropping everything to help me. This article was written at one of my lowest points. Six years later CNET, a website that tracks consumer technology breakthroughs, wrote an article about how I combined my experience with technology with my lived experience of bipolar disorder to start a company called ThriveStreams. Our driving mission is to use technology to improve mental wellness.

I hope my story will help those struggling with mental health challenges to be patient with the process of designing a healthy support plan to monitor, manage, and accept their condition. This is how I am now able to Thrive!

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

It happened very quickly. I had just finished my sophomore year at college and was working at a summer camp. I sank into a depression which quickly turned suicidal and psychotic. Fortunately, the camp nurse sent me home to get help before I spun too far out of control.

I have limited memories of the three months after I returned home: doctors, medications, mixed states, hearing voices, not being able to tell what was real, no sleep, too much sleep. It’s all a blur. But I did emerge from this and returned to college, still shaky in my mental health but trying to move forward with my life—and it was not a linear progression. I was hospitalized twice during my senior year, but managed to graduate. Slowly I built a tool kit that has served as the foundation of my mental health stability.

I grew more adept at managing my recovery, despite my shaky start. Over the ten years post-graduation, I developed a career I love in international health and development policy. I finished graduate school, got married, and had a child. I lived abroad in China, which taught me to build a social support network in lieu of the mental health treatment facilities I had used in the United States. There were still bad days and weeks and months, but the skills I developed in therapy and group allowed me to manage them better.

I have learned that while you have to be vigilant about symptoms, you can live a full life pursuing your goals. You do not need to let the illness define you or what you can do. Don’t ignore the illness, but work around the limitations. And there will be set backs—I’ve been hospitalized a few times since college but each time I’ve bounced back faster. If I’m ever in the hospital again, I’ll know that I have bounced back before and can do it again.

Three things have turned out to be the most important to my recovery: a schedule, sleep, and medication. Having to go to work gives me a routine even when my brain is not in the mood to function. Work and taking care of my son keep my life anchored and help head off larger mood swings. Sleep is also essential to my mood stability and I know that even an hour variation in my schedule can have serious consequences.

Medications are great for managing my mood. Medications, of course, do not resolve all symptoms and can have nasty side effects, so you must tinker until you find the right levels. Therapy, mindfulness, family, and friends have also played important roles in my mental health, but the triad of schedule, sleep, and medication are what keep me functioning.

Now, except on the worst days, I look forward to what the future will bring.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

“You’re not good enough!” “Things will never get better!” “It’s hopeless!” These are just a few of the voices of bipolar disorder that have been living in my head since I was a teenager. But on a day that has been etched into my mind forever—I was 15, lying in bed contemplating suicide—I heard another voice whisper, “One day you will share your story.” I found it absurd that such a thought would pop into my head at such a desperate time, yet over the years I have heard it more loudly and frequently. It is  nothing short of miraculous that I am here, 30 years later, doing exactly what that voice assured me of so long ago.

Without a doubt, I know it was God carrying me through this battle, teaching me that my struggles would one day provide hope for others. I’ve wanted to give up so many times. There have been lows filled with despair—seemingly lasting forever—when I’ve wanted nothing more than to die. Then they would switch to mania, resulting in nights of sleeplessness.

I have been fairly stable for a few years. After countless hours of therapy, endless trials with different pharmaceutical cocktails, numerous hospitalizations and leaves of absences from my teaching job, I can finally say I accept living with a bipolar diagnosis. I see moments where God has clearly saved me when I’ve called out to Him in desperation. He’s given me strength and courage to speak out and help others by blogging and sharing my story with struggling teens. The moment I put my complete trust in God, even though it didn’t seem to make sense, doors began to open. My life changed when my purpose became clear.

Despite my illness, I have been able to accomplish things my 15-year-old self would never have thought possible. I have overcome an eating disorder and alcoholism, both of which I turned to in order to cope. I am now in my eighteenth year of teaching elementary school where my experience with mental illness has given me more insight and compassion for my students. I have an amazingly supportive family, comprising my husband and two boys with whom I travel the country every summer in our rv.

Whereas at one point I could not imagine seeing past the darkness and fog, I now truly appreciate all the beauty this world has to offer. We organize concerts as a family to benefit our community and also bring anti-bullying assemblies to elementary schools. My husband and I write the programs which are performed by our 11 and 13 year-old sons’ band. I achieved a bucket list goal of completing a 30-mile ultramarathon and I’m now pursuing my dream of writing for the purpose of bringing others hope. I blog at maotribe.wordpress.com and have a book that is in the works.

I never truly believed I would make it this far. As I’ve struggled, my faith has grown that God will have my back when I ask for help and that He has brought me to this moment. I vow to keep pressing on in the hope that my journey will help others see that they, too, have a purpose and that there is hope. There is always, ALWAYS hope!

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.
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