With episodes, no matter how many tools I use, I still hurt deeply. I cannot be cured. The goal of medicine and coping strategies in my case is to ameliorate my symptoms, not eliminate them. I do have good days. Sometimes I can string them together for a while, but this is how my brain works, and I don’t get to trade it in. Sometimes the idea of living sick for the rest of my life makes me very, very depressed. It can even lead to a thought spiral, which in its own right can trigger an episode.
I can lessen my pain; I cannot eliminate it. Having to live in this consciousness has the unfortunate consequence of being aware that I’m in pain. It’s deep and broad, and sometimes I get swallowed up and go very far away. So far I’ve always come back.
I’ve tried to kill myself twice. The first was hanging; my neck didn’t break and I got caught and was cut down. The second was an overdose of lithium. I planned that one much more thoroughly, and it was not at all an impulse decision. I had to wait two weeks after I finalized my plan so that I could get my refill and have enough to take ten grams or 10,000 milligrams. Eight grams is the lethal dose. I don’t know why I survived, but I’m sure my liver is shot. The good news for me is that it’s only been two times that I’ve tried to commit suicide in the course of eleven years, and my last attempt was only two years into my diagnosis.
Almost everything is much easier now. I’m able to handle my episodes with more strength and sometimes even grace. There is a steep learning curve in bipolar and mental illness, and you have to master things like pharmacies, insurance, doctors, prescriptions, refills and of course your own survival skills that you build as you grow. I know now that I have to be my own advocate as a patient because getting health care of any kind is not a “customer is always right” situation. You either work the system the way it is, or you go without.
Not being cured of bipolar, ever, is discouraging in the extreme. I have to be vigilant with my meds, my exercise, my diet, my sleep schedule, and my mindfulness in order to stay alive. Then, depending on the day, I throw in some other coping tools to help whatever needs helping. I’ve made it to thirty-one years old and twelve years bipolar. I’m pretty damn proud of that.
By Emily Harrington