My Story
I have written my story in a myriad of renditions and scraps, whether it be on another writing platform on the internet or simply in my thoughts. The latter of which I tend to return back to and ruminate. I have never attempted to share my story on a larger scale.
I always wondered if I would ever summon up the courage to do so. I have ventured imperceptibly at times to share my story directly with individuals, the way one does testing the lapping salty ocean water trepidatiously with their toes. I contemplate their words, measure their actions, and analyze their body language. Many that I deem safe react with a balmy disposition. They listen deeply and often have their own stories to exchange. Others I have found are about as pleasant as a Nor’Easter and I sense it unwise to search for a safe harbor in them, at least for the time being.
I did not think my story would unwrap in this way; however, I feel a sense of obligation to do so or else I run the risk of having others telling my story without a solid comprehension of the details. Without further ado, I beckon you to dive into my story with me. If you feel a cannonball would be more of your style, by all means try that too!
This is my story of having type 1 bipolar disorder.
Late Teenage Years to Early Twenties
I have misplaced or lost access to all the tangible and electronic journals I kept in my early twenties so that period of time will be comprised of roughly hewn memories that I have often times pushed to the recess of my mind. My late twenties thrust me, unprepared, into motherhood and marriage. I failed to keep any sort of journals at that time.
My first attempt at taking my life happened during my freshman year of undergraduate studies at UC Irvine. I was eighteen, in my very first quarter of college courses, and ill-equipped to thrive or even survive. Within the mental health community, many who share their stories opt to not provide all details so that others cannot glean other potential ways of self-harm or suicide. It is in this spirit that I simply say my first attempt at my life was my strongest attempt. For whatever reason, my body fought successfully to keep me alive and I emerged from it practically unscathed.
I am typically asked to provide a brief background of my mental history whenever I am seen by a new provider. They usually inquire about your history with self-harm and suicide attempts after jotting down your basic data. Name. Date of birth. Current age. Weight. Height. Any allergies? I often catch their pen lingering over their paper a few milliseconds longer than before as they process what I have just told them. It is a minute but sharp juxtaposition from the quick, nonchalant penmanship they just used to jot down my initial information. Some will press for more details, others will ask if this led to any necessary medical intervention. Many shift in their seats and take a moment to glance at me while sifting through their own judgements and algorithms. I imbibe deeply during these intakes and make quick work of determining if the water is safe or mercurial. Will the healthcare worker find the common thread of humanity that binds us or am I just another monotonous task that needs to be crossed off their list quickly?
For whatever reason, I was able to slip through the system for a few years after that first attempt. Maybe its my soft-spoken demeanor that carried me through nearly undetected. Maybe our healthcare system needs to adapt to focus less on the task of filling and more on conversing in the language of life fluently? What I do know is I rode the storms of almost a dozen half hearted suicide attempts and numerous occasions of self-harm before I got tired of the incessant sensation of drowning. I partly owe my life to a paternal aunt and cousin who advocated strongly for mental health. With them cheering loudly in my spectator stands, I decided to learn how to swim.
Bipolar Disorder, Type 2
I vaguely remember the day I was given the diagnosis: bipolar disorder, type 2. I figured as much that I had depression. The manic part caught me by surprise but it made sense. It was as if the psychiatrist who diagnosed me had given me the remaining pieces to a puzzle that I had been trying to make sense of. With all pieces in place, it all came together. I recall distinctly sitting in my car and staring at the palm trees swaying softly in a breeze of the Kaiser business park while I called my aunt to tell her of the diagnosis. My doctor’s office was just down the street from the Ikea in Costa Mesa that I spent countless hours wandering alone in solitude. My memory is a little rough here. I cannot recall if this was 2008 or 2009. I am leaning towards the former.
The diagnosis along with the lamictal and various benzodiazepines that followed afforded me the appropriate bearings to navigate my way throughout the rest of my undergraduate days. I had been academically disqualified from UCI at some point during my junior year. I had failed to thrive repeatedly and had capsized. Various family members as well as my parents had made their feelings known at some point. My daddy had pleaded for me to come home, that a college degree could be earned at a different time, and that he was terrified of receiving a call one day informing him of my death. If I may add with a touch of cheekiness, I must have been really unwell if my Asian immigrant family was so vocal about me getting better mentally before education. I was hardheaded and refused to give up school. I attended classes at a local community college near UCI and was eventually accepted back as an Anteater, receiving my bachelor’s degree in History in 2010.
Bipolar Disorder, Type 1
Another storm would hit me just when it appeared to be smooth sailing. I lacked strong discipline in taking the lamictal consistently after a few months of finally feeling better. After a relapse and bout of depression, I tried taking it again without the guidance of a physician. Lamictal requires careful titration or else you run the risk of Stevens-Johnson syndrome. I remember how my skin burned and felt hot to the touch and how quickly my body puffed up. Mitchell, who I was dating at the time and actually visiting at his childhood home, brought me to the ED because I was in so much pain. The neurology team there determined lamictal was no longer a safe option. I was switched to lithium and also given abilify. The lithium gave me a fine hand tremor, which made things like eating with chopsticks to be an extra frustrating affair. The abilify bestowed upon me akathisia, which I hated even more than the hand tremors.
It was around this time that I had earned my bachelor’s and was working towards boosting my GPA and taking prerequisite courses for something in the medical field. Untreated bipolar disorder had lain to waste any sort of hopes in attending medical school. I figured I could try nursing and plodded forward. Then in October 2011, I was admitted to UCI’s psychiatric ward under a voluntary 5150. My thoughts and speech had been racing at lightning speed. My sleep dwindled to a three hour stretch if I was lucky, at times even less. I sensed something was wrong and chose to self-harm in attempt to slam myself mentally back to the ground through physical pain. In the rapturous energy of mania, I still remembered the lesson of Icarus. I was traveling too fast and too high. The sun was coming.
First Hospitalization
My memories here are fuzzy. I sift more through a snapshot of emotions that help me frame and recall them. I remember how the two young Asian women, probably only a few years older than I was, who were doing my physical intake exchanged a look of discomfort as I detailed a traumatic event that occurred when I was eighteen (not that first suicide attempt). I remember the older Latina, close to around my mom’s age, who was my roommate for the first night. Her voice was tired and soft. She was there for depression and offered no more details, choosing to cry softly in her bed for most of her stay. Loneliness is an emotion that punctuates most of my memories during undergrad. In one instance, I had looked forward to having a roommate while living in the dorms my freshman year. I was instead assigned to a single. I remember noting the irony of finally experiencing a roommate while in a psych. ward.
That psychiatric ward was a mixed gender unit. Upon the second night, a young gentleman around my age was admitted for a manic episode. He was well over six feet tall and built like someone who knew their way around a gym. We were allowed to mix freely in the common area and he had attempted to touch my feet, enclosed in those ubiquitous hospital socks, several times while staring hard at my face, telling me he thought I was really pretty and could tell I was because of how I looked even without any makeup. He even asked another male patient if he agreed with this, the latter murmuring in agreement, then both looking at me. I tucked my feet underneath myself and told him not to touch me. I remember anger and disgust and thinking I was so fucking tired of men.
Even in a psychiatric ward, I felt like I could not escape their attention and I was so fucking angry. I would later exchange phone numbers with the other male patient who had murmured his approval with the manic guy’s assessment of my looks. I thought he wanted a friend, maybe looking for a kinship seeing how it was both of our first times in a psychiatric ward. After a few text exchanges once we had both been discharged, he asked if I would go on a date. I promptly stopped replying and wondered if something was intrinsically wrong with me that men seemingly could just not be my friend. Again the loneliness. And the rage of being constantly objectified, even in a hospital issued gown and baggy scrub pants.
This hospital stay safe guarded my life in that I could no longer self-harm or make attempts on my life until I was no longer manic. It left me feeling disillusioned with everything in the mental health field though. The one psychiatrist I had that treated me like a person had moved on for fellowship and the rest that followed handled me like a task. I eventually stopped taking all medications and seeking medical help. I figured I had learned the rudimentary skills to swim at this point. At the very least, I could float.
Interim
I liken my experience of bipolar disorder and medication to that of fuzzy television reception. Bear with me as I am aware that this is not exactly a sophisticated metaphor. Some people have little to no problems in getting clear reception. Sometimes there is a glitch in the system but overall, they experience life through a relatively clear lens. Others at the opposing end of the spectrum never really get things going. They cannot participate in the everyday banter of discussing shows and movies because they have never been able to ascertain the plot or the picture. For me, my cerebral television reception is at times not dependable. Medication and therapy help protect that connection so that I can enjoy a clearer picture for longer periods of time with truncated power outages. I spent my mid to late twenties and the beginning parts of my thirties without a protected connection. I got by but not without major plot holes here and there.
It would be another woman who would advocate strongly again for me to seek mental healthcare, an OB-GYN I saw while pregnant with my second child. I always dutifully noted that I had bipolar disorder to any new healthcare practitioner that saw me. She was the one who stopped and looked further. Upon discovering that I was not receiving any mental care, she all but demanded that I see someone. It was through her insistence that I decided once more to try to seek care. I had the luck of becoming a patient of a prescriber and therapist who were skilled at what they did. I was placed on seroquel and had weekly therapy visits that were constructive and meaningful. My postpartum experience after my firstborn versus that of my second born are night and day. I felt as if I was flourishing once again. The days of emotional fuzziness dropped to a minimum.
Second Hospitalization
I figure if you have made it this far with me that you will forgive another rough metaphor. Perhaps suicidal ideation can be seen or felt like a long, completely dark corridor. Some may have passed it briefly, acknowledging its presence but never really lingering. Some stand at the doorframe and just behold it for what it is and nothing more. They are never really troubled by it. Then there are others whose lives have been overtaken by this darkness, tortured by it, consumed. They know there is a target just at the other end of the corridor that if they hit correctly, it will stop the darkness. The target is small. You must hit it precisely in order to stop the darkness. One may throw multiple balls in vain, never succeeding in hitting the target. Some throw once and get it on the first attempt. One week ago I stood at the doorframe yet again, contemplating the weight of the ball in my hand, softly considering the velocity that I failed to achieve in the past.
It was with this energy and knowledge that I decided to head to the ED. I would be discharged five days later on December 9, 2020.
I journaled extensively during this hospitalization and will write a post detailing it but that will be for another day.
In the beginning of this post, I alluded towards an obligation to share my story. When you are a patient of a psychiatric ward, all of your electronics are taken away. My radio silence was detected by many. Some have offered support without inquiring further. Others have made assumptions as to why I was in the hospital. I chafe at the thought of perpetuating half-truths and utilizing deceptive diction. So instead I have opted to share the meat of my story. I have found it cathartic to write about and I hope it challenges preconceptions of what having a mental disorder looks like.