– by Janie Lyvon

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Heavy topics like substance abuse, addiction, suicidal thoughts and ideation, and mental health struggles carry a trigger warning in this revised journal entry about my struggles as a bipolar person.

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I despise being bipolar.

Some people openly boast about it online for others to see.

“My Journey with Bipolar Personality Disorder: How I Overcame It, and You Can Too!“

The truth? There is no such thing as overcoming bipolar personality disorder.

Do you want to know what the reality of living with bipolar is?

Bipolar disorder is the most embarrassing, humiliating, and deprecating component of my personality. I do consider it upsetting when people portray bipolar disorder in a lighthearted way, as it does not contain any elements of laughter or joy. There are no jokes to tell, nor should there be any made. 

The last time I experienced hypomania, I attempted to run in front of a vehicle and was fortunately restrained at the last moment by a friend who was accompanying me. Then, I snorted meth, did not sleep for three days, and believed in angelic visits and direct communication with God.

You see, the stigma around it prevents me from discussing or being honest about it. When I try to talk about it, people are horrified by the genuine, nasty nature of the condition and what I just described.

What I describe does not align with the narrative they have been presented with; it does not embody the whimsical persona often romanticized in popular culture. Instead, I feel like a flawed individual who has committed regrettable actions and attributes them to my bipolar diagnosis. I’ve learned to keep quiet about my struggles and cope with them silently.

So I can’t mention how my mind becomes so muddled that days merge into weeks into months of lost time, and I eventually lose track of the year or how old I am. Each thought races like a small bouncing ball hurled full force into a confined space, with nowhere to go but to keep bouncing from one corner to another.

And another corner,

another, another, another;

over, over, over;

Fast, quick.

The thoughts are never clear enough to pin any point; there’s no focusing in on a single idea or culling to any precise thought, ever. I no longer have control of myself. Just like my thoughts, my body never stops either; I’m constantly in motion.

Sleep evades me, but I barely notice, nor do I feel worn out. I am experiencing a level of happiness that I have never felt before in my life, and I wish for it to continue indefinitely.

That’s when the mania takes full hold.

I speak before I’ve had a chance to consider whether what I’m saying is proper or even appropriate to say out loud. Actions possess my body. Before I realized it, I had already acted without considering the ramifications, implications, or what I had just done. 

I behave like a child who hasn’t yet mastered impulse control. My memory starts to fail, chunks vanish, and time eludes me inexorably. People begin telling me things I don’t remember doing, and strangers approach me knowing who I am, yet I can’t place when or how we met. I’m clueless.

Friends cut me off, and family members stop speaking with me.

What’s the worst part? 

I don’t even know what I did or said that was so terrible to lose relatives and friends over or to make strangers despise me. Even when they admonish me or yell at me, I need to learn to take ownership of my actions.

I don’t fucking remember doing it.

I do apologize; I truly mean it. I’m mortified. How could someone not feel this way? But I see it on their faces; whatever I did caused them to lose faith in me. They no longer trust my remarks, considering them as a ruse; they now believe that the unsightly image I presented, whichever day or night, represented my actual personality. Yet I wasn’t even mentally present at that time; I was blacked out, but they don’t understand; they can’t even possibly begin to comprehend the notion.

Suddenly, I sense myself pulled toward the things that I would never do. The question looms in the background of my mind, threatening to plunge me into a depressive state of self-reflection.

Am I a bad person?

I must be.

The look they gave me, without a single word spoken, sent a tremendous message.

I find myself in the company of individuals who are less than ideal, and I cannot dismiss the notion that I am deserving of this situation.

They are providing me with a new antidote, which I embrace without question. 

Is this individual a friend?

When did I meet this person? 

Do I even know this individual, or trust them?

I continue to take what’s being offered without question, feeling a new exhilarating pull emerge that has stolen generations from my family tree:

Addiction.

I know what this process is and how it begins; I’ve seen this countless times.

I lost my sister to addiction; she was the only individual who ever provided me with a sense of safety, and I witnessed her gradual self-destruction. She transformed into an unrecognizable person. I only ever knew my birth mother to be an addict.

A younger me, full of hopes, goals, and aspirations, made an unspoken promise I would never follow their path.

I knew where the outcome would lead me, yet, faced with it in that moment, I no longer cared. It serves as a temporary solution, allowing me to remain enveloped in a deceptive sense of happiness.

It persists until it ceases to exist.

And the crash that follows mania or a bender is my definition of hell.

There’s a constant urge to succumb to your existence, a droning pull to collapse in on yourself. I no longer have an identity, nor do I wish to have one; I only have questions.

I wonder, why?

Was it the vulnerable state I was in? 

Was it predestined to happen this way? 

Am I even in control anymore?

Was I ever?

Did I become homeless for over half a year because I was bipolar?

Did being bipolar cause me to ruin lifelong friendships and relationships?

Did I become an addict because I was bipolar?

Is it possible that I am using my disorder as an excuse? 

Am I deflecting accountability away from myself? 

How will I ever know for certain? 

How do I know when I’m not in control? 

If any friends were remaining, they wouldn’t make it this round, especially when I haven’t attempted to reach back out to them in… 

How long has it been now?

Were any of them a positive influence to begin with?

Once again, the days blend distinctly, differing from mania but remaining a blur nonetheless. Only I keep my memories this time, for the most part.

Spending endless days in bed, sleeping for hours that stretch into double digits, makes it difficult to distinguish dreams from reality.

I wake up only to force myself back asleep. I find it to be a disappointment and an inconvenience every time my mind regains its wakefulness.

Although I have always desired long hair, my hair has naturally never grown more than a few inches past my shoulders. I’ve had to cut off the matted parts of my hair multiple times, even opting to buzz it all off at one point and wearing wigs until it grew back because the matting was so extreme from endless hours spent rotting in bed, never brushing my hair.

I neglect my hygiene entirely, often going days or even weeks without showering or brushing my teeth. Things like that no longer bother me; I don’t care about them. What’s the point?

Embarrassingly, I’ve never revealed this truth before, but let’s face it: I’ve urinated in bottles and cups beside my bed due to my inability to make it to the bathroom and relieve myself.

There’s simply no energy left in my body to spend. It’s like the mania stole it away from me.

Every second and every breath I take while awake feels like a laborious task.

I don’t eat. 

Then I overeat after unintentionally starving myself.

Anxiety overpowers my every thought; I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t recognize myself in the mirror. My eyes are drooping like the gravity of my sadness is quite literally weighing them down.

I can’t leave my house in the literal sense; I cannot even step outside my door for a brief moment. 

Whether it’s due to some unknown precedent fear I’ve tricked myself into believing or the shame of how awful things have gotten, the fact is I’m slowly trying to kill myself by not taking care of my body.

I’m not sure; a combination most likely.

Sometimes I begin to think I’m pulling myself out of it.

I strive to make amends for everything I’ve done, acknowledging that I’m not innocent. I have engaged in actions during periods of mania that continue to trouble me, including those I recall, those I do not, and those I have yet to learn about but prefer to remain unaware of. I am always deeply, if not obsessively, concerned about everything. I can’t alleviate the world’s misery; others suffer more than I do. 

I have no voice, not even for myself.

Upon reflection, I recognize that the gravest transgression I have committed is betraying my inner child, who aspired to be a selfless helper rather than a self-absorbed individual who becomes easily frustrated by trivial matters. 

I am simply exhausted from feeling alone in these struggles.

I don’t have anyone to confide in due to the apprehension of criticism and people’s constant judgment. 

It’s difficult for me to discuss this topic I have suffered with for so long now without fearing I’m coming off as a raging lunatic, or hateful, or a bitch, an asshole, angry, or bitter, a fucking insane person, or just lazy, or another addict, junkie, whore, or all the other God-awful things—yes, all things I have been called.

I mean, genuinely, I do feel that no one truly cares or understands what it’s like to live as a person with bipolar disorder unless they have experienced it themselves. Even after getting help for these ailments I struggle with, I find myself fighting the pull between mania and depression.

I’ll catch myself getting too fidgety, too restless, and my thoughts will be racing. I haven’t slept yet, but I still have an abundance of energy, and I feel… amazing! Then I realize it’s the cycle. I have to catch it before it escalates, before I’m that person again, and my God, do I never want to be that person again.

I have done unspeakable things while manic—things I remember and things I don’t. I have suffered the consequences of my actions during my depression. You can count on it. Sometimes I only question if I ever had a chance at some normal life, or if I was destined to be this person with a broken brain that the only people who would understand are the people whose brains are just as broken as mine.