Diagnosis: Unwell

“I’m not crazy I’m just a little unwell. I know right now you can’t tell, but stay a while and maybe then you’ll see a different side of me. I’m not crazy I’m just a little impaired. I know right now you don’t care, but soon enough you’re gonna think of me and how I used to be,”

– Matchbox 20, Unwell.

In March 2014, I got my first slice of reality. Yet, it all felt so surreal. Was this really happening to me? No… It can’t be.

My story starts long before then, however. I guess I’ve always been a little peculiar. I suppose with my explosive nature, and a mood that toggles between love and hate periodically, they had reason for calling me Bipolar Barbie when I was 13. The name never bothered me. In fact, I found it to be a bit catchy and wore it proudly. I could care less if my classmates thought I was a little bit mental. Frankly, I’ve always had a deep fascination with the mentally ill. What can trigger someone to hurt themselves; to hurt others? How can people reach such a low point emotionally, especially to the extent to want to end their lives? Why are some people’s brains wired differently? Have they really lost control? Is there no way for them to lead a normal life? There are so many disorders, each distinct and rather intriguing. A hobby of mine would be to read on different mental illnesses, as well as on serial killers. I mean, those people must surely have something wrong with them. I don’t believe a fully functioning human being can go on a serial killing spree without being a bit messed up in the head. Some people might be disturbed by crimes committed by these notorious killers, but me, I wish I could meet them; get into their heads; know what could drive them to that. Being insane seemed like the most interesting thing to me. Maybe I’m just a little too curious of a person. Have I spent too much time trying to analyse the minds of killers and ill people that I’ve made myself start to think like them? Who knows?

The first time I cut myself, I was really young; perhaps too young for some to believe. It started as an unintentional thing. I accidentally sliced my finger on the sharp metal edge by the kitchen counter as a child. Eventually, it became habitual. For some unknown reason, I enjoyed watching the blood pour out of me. In a weird way, it was soothing. Thus, this became my relief when things got too difficult to cope with. Parents arguing at home… *slice* Oh, sweet, sweet, crimson bliss. I believe that only happened for as long as the edge of the counter remained sharp. When it dulled, well, sayonara to my escape.

I don’t recall much of my childhood. I think a lot of my memories have been suppressed, with the worst of the worst locked safely in the vault of bad memories in my mind. What I do remember is when things took a turn for the worst in my life. August 2006. The most important person to me, my grandfather, passed away (R.I.P. Papa; love you dearly). Every person copes with losses differently. For me, I became a hollow shell of my former self. I craved happiness again, and I would’ve done anything to find it… yet, happiness never seemed to want to stick around.

I guess I wallowed in that typical teenage angst as some of us tend to do. I hated the world, and figured the world hated me. I’d walk around paranoid that everyone was staring at me and making fun of me. I’d almost always be crying, and to cover it up, I cut side bangs and wore my hair in my face so no one would see my eyes. I thought I was hiding the pain and creating the illusion that I was okay, but the people around me were the furthest thing from ignorant. They knew I was crying out for help..,. But did I really want their help? Could they even truly help me? Eventually, I got the label “emo” written all over me. I detested it, but perhaps it was the image I created for myself. Soon enough, I began to live up to that stereotypical “emo” behaviour. I’ve always been a fan of heavy metal, but I made that the only genre I’d listen to. Bought my black nail polish. Hair always fell in my face. Oh, let’s not forget the self-mutilation.

Sociologist Howard Becker, in his 1963 labelling theory (published in his book “Outsiders”) writes, “…social groups create deviance by making rules whose infraction creates deviance, and by applying those roles to particular people and labelling them as outsiders.” He therefore sees deviant behaviour as behaviour that people label “deviant”. According to Becker, a label is a master status, i.e. one that overrides other status’ possessed by an individual. He argues that an individual’s self-concept is shaped by the impressions of others; therefore the label attached to them would override any other view of self. By this logic, it could’ve just been the self-fulfilling prophecy at work, causing me to live out the label of “emo” that had been given to me. I mean hey, give the people what they want, right?

In time, pain became no stranger to me. I embraced it, became best of friends with it… loved it. I’d tell myself this, “I enjoy hurting, because knowing that I can feel pain shows that I’m still human.” Although, I see now, that there is so much more to being human than hurting. We have other feelings, and I should be able to acquaint myself with them as well. For example, joy. I am aware of its existence, but I’ve never seemed to find it, or at least make a long-term friendship with it in the same manner that I have with pain. Or, could it be that I never found genuine happiness before? Have I just been associating myself with an imitation? Maybe… With my tendencies to get a quick high when I feel low, it could truly be that I haven’t found healthy coping mechanisms.

This all leads me to where I am now. The monster I’ve created. Everything I never wanted to be; relying on drugs (prescription), sex, and alcohol to numb the pain. Clinging to others for affection; hoping they could make me feel good; praying they could fix me. Yet, I just felt dead on the inside. I haven’t been living, just merely existing. Floating around aimlessly as the world moves on without me. Then, that day happened. “What’s the point of life, when you’re not living?” I wondered to myself. There I was, curled up in a ball, tears streaming down my face, wanting to end it all, hoping that I could find the courage to say goodbye to this world. Yet, something kept me here. Something within me told me not to let go yet. I found the courage to seek help, and went to my counsellor to vent all of my frustrations at the time. The solution: see the psychiatrist at the hospital for a proper diagnosis.

Within the time I’ve been going to therapy, they’ve suspected that I could possibly be bipolar, hence the referral to the shrink. Now that it was happening… now that things were becoming real, I felt like a scared little girl. I figure I always knew something was wrong. People don’t just have periodic episodes of depression without a reason. People shouldn’t be triggered as easily as I am. Yes, I knew in my heart that something was out of place, but my brain refused to acknowledge it.

Hospitalisation #1:

The doctors kept me for two weeks under observation. I hated every moment spent there. Sharing a room, yet alone a bathroom, with complete strangers *shudders*. Having a team of doctors ask you the most intimate details of your life and expect you to just pour your heart and soul out to them when you wouldn’t even tell your best friends some of these things. Oh, then the nurses giving you pills without telling you what it’s for; just simply responding “doctor’s orders; your doctor will explain it to you.” For all I know I could’ve been putting poison down my throat as the nurses closely monitored me to ensure I swallowed it. *sigh*

Eventually, the team of psychiatrists came to their conclusion and I finally learned what medication I’ve been taking. Poison indeed. Antidepressants and Mood Stabilisers.

Diagnosis: Bipolar (2) disorder and Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD).

Bipolar (2) symptom checklist:

Hypomania:

• Grandiose feelings (check)
• Decreased need for sleep
• Increased talkativeness; rapidly speaking (check)
• Racing thoughts (check)
• Easily distracted (check)
• Overactivity (check)
• Irritability (check)
• Engaging in risky behaviour (check)

Depression:

• Low energy levels/fatigue (check)
• Loss of interest in regular activities (check)
• Weight loss or gain (check)
• Loss of appetite (check)
• Isolation from people (check)
• Suicidal ideation; attempted suicide (check)
• Psychomotor agitation (check)
• Depressed mood (check)

So, I guess I fit the criteria, huh?

Borderline Personality Disorder symptom checklist:

• Fear of abandonment (check)
• Pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships which alter between idealisation and devaluation (check)
• Black and white thinking (check)
• Unstable self-image or sense of self (check)
• Impulsivity (HUGE CHECK)
• Engaging in risky behaviour (check)
• Emotional instability (another big CHECK)
• Chronic feelings of emptiness (yup, yup, yupity yup)
• Inappropriate/intense/irrational anger, or difficulty controlling anger (check)
• Paranoid thoughts or severe dissociative symptoms (check)

I can argue the bipolar diagnosis because I don’t believe it. I could simply be in a state of denial. It could be that I just don’t want to believe it. Ironic, how the person who romanticised mental illness now cringes at the thought of having such label attached to her. On the contrary, I have come to terms with the borderline personality diagnosis. It isn’t because I’ve met all the criteria for it, but because knowing myself and how I am, there is no denying it,

So, what now? They tell you you’re crazy. They give you pills to take daily. You get counselling. Does that really fix things? Does that make the problem go away? Here I am, 7 months post diagnosis, post medication, and I’ve been hospitalised twice for suicidal ideation and here I sit with my arm sliced up like a Thanksgiving turkey, typing my story. Where did I go wrong? Wasn’t this process supposed to help me? Why do I still feel empty? Why am I still lost? Why is it that I feel just as helpless as I did before?

A good friend once told me that I’m not the girl he once knew. When we met, I was a vibrant girl with incredible potential. A girl who still aimed for happiness despite all that life has put her through. A girl with aspirations to become a better person; one who knew she deserved more out of this life, and kept striving for more. Then, she suddenly became increasingly pessimistic. I just accepted the disorders as they were and figured there was no fixing me. That happiness was a mere myth in my life; about as real as the Loch Ness Monster; and gradually, the downwards spiral into depression resumed, with me only searching for quick and easy gratification. That girl was not the girl he became friends with, and it hurt to know that nothing he did could help me.

It’s true… nothing he or anybody else did or would ever do can help me. The only person in this world capable of fixing me is ME! No doctor, therapist, or “magic” pill would ever make me feel better. I have to do this on my own. This is my cross in life to bear. We all have our struggles. For me, my emotional instability has been holding me back from reaching my true potential and achieving greater things. However, I know it’s not impossible to find that balance in my life. Call me bipolar, call me borderline. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m not; but like everyone else in this world, I am a person; and similar to others, I have issues which I need to overcome.

What I have learned is to not shut out the people in my life who care. I tend to become a loner when I’m hurting. I rather keep it all to myself than burden those around me. I see now that it isn’t helping me by doing that, nor does it ease things for my friends and family who genuinely want me to get better. Bottling up my feelings only worsens things for me until eventually I crack and mentally breakdown. I’m tired of it. I don’t want to repeat this pattern of hurting. I have to learn how to open up in a healthy way. I have to learn how to be accepting of help on this journey to bettering myself. More than anything, I must learn to trust myself and believe that I am stronger than I have been giving myself credit for. Nothing is impossible as long as you’re willing to work hard. I won’t let my disorders define me any longer. I can strip myself of these labels. I can make my own name in this world. One day, I will find my inner peace. Happiness will no longer be a stranger, and I will learn to let go of all the pain I’ve been holding on so dearly to.

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“We can turn it all around cuz it’s not too late, it’s never too late” – Three Days Grace, Never too Late.