Beating the Odds

Seventy percent of people with bipolar disorder drop out of college.

The first 18 years of my life were riddled with excess. I convinced myself that overachieving wasn’t satisfactory enough which lead to burnout after burnout and I ended up staying in-state at my last choice school (UofA doesn’t count lol).

I entered ASU with the mindset of still needing to be the best and used the cloud of defeat over my head as motivation. I also started this new chapter of my life with a new diagnosis of bipolar disorder.

For a while, I convinced myself that I didn’t need to put much attention or focus on it. I told myself, “I’ve always been bipolar, this diagnosis just puts a name to it, and I’ve done just fine so far, so why center my life around it?”

Hindsight is 20/20 and I actually wasn’t doing fine and — if I’m being totally honest — have never really been doing fine. I had a recent realization that I have never been medically stable. My therapist has told me this a number of times, but it’s only just hit me now because for the first time in my entire life, I am not in fight or flight mode.

Even during the periods of time where I was good and stable, I was still using all of my energy 24/7 to just get through to the next day. I ignored my bipolar disorder until I was incapable of pretending it didn’t exist. Then I’d fall or float into an episode and scramble to put together some semblance of a regular daily routine when I was grounded again. I told myself and everyone around me that I was fine and at some points I believed it.

But now as an official a college graduate who walked across the stage with no honors or awards and no job — something that 18-year-old me would’ve had an actual psychotic break over — I have recognized that I am not fine and that’s okay.

I am not healthy or sane or stable or functional. I haven’t just been dealing with the regular ebb and flow of life. The reality is, I have been neglecting a life-altering neurological mood disorder for four years.

I am aware that this sounds incredibly pessimistic and I don’t want to discredit any of the actual progress I’ve made, but I think it’s an important thing to admit. I am finally in a phase of my life where I can allow myself to really hone in on my mental health and figure out how to heal so I can live a functional life. Maybe I’m not fine, but I am content and I am alive, and those are things I didn’t think I would be at 22.

I beat the odds of graduating college and I plan to continue to beat the odds of any and everything else I do, if not for me, then for everyone who isn’t able to. My view of success has shifted from an abundance of accolades to simple progress.

If I can do my part to make headway for the next person then that is all that matters to me. I don’t totally know what it’ll look like yet, but I am excited to see what the future holds.

To anyone with bipolar disorder out there who is starting college, in college, dropped out of college or anywhere in-between and beyond, please know that it’s okay to take a break. It’s okay to prioritize yourself, it’s not selfish or stagnant, it’s critical.

Taking Care of Your Health Actually Works

The title itself is probably has you thinking, “Well no shit,” but it’s a fact that took me almost dying to realize.

Today I had one of the most productive and introspective therapy sessions to date. It was mostly positive and incredibly reflective. My therapist — and my parents — have been telling me that I need to slow down and focus on my health for years now. Especially with my bipolar diagnosis, having a routine and prioritizing my physical well-being alongside my mental health is critical to my survival and I think I’ve finally come around to understanding that.

Over the past 54 days, I have built a routine and have taken time in silence to think.

Silence.

It’s something that used to absolutely terrify me. The idea of being left alone with only my thoughts was petrifying. I was afraid of what lied beneath the chaos of life and what lived within my own brain. Whether that was obsessions that paralyzed me or hallucinations that terrified me, I was living in constant fear of who I actually was. Taking away my distractions and my vices has given me the opportunity to face my reality instead of running away from it.

I talked a lot about who I was 4 years ago. Eighteen year old me was an entirely different person and when I look in the mirror I can only see a distant memory of her. I wish I could sit in front of her and tell her that I’m okay.

I want to tell her that we’re okay and even when we aren’t that’s okay too. I want to hug her and hold her and reassure her that despite the fact our life will always be an uphill battle, we’ve gotten stronger and tenacious. I want to tell her that we’re starting to acknowledge our pitfalls and faults in a way that is productive and we’re learning how to communicate and set boundaries. I want to tell her that even though people have left her life, she doesn’t feel less than anymore. I want to tell her that we have people we love and cherish that actively make us want to allow them to be sentimental and caring without pushing them away. I want to tell it all to her, but at the same time, if she knew, she would never become the person we are today.

My therapist told me something that I definitely already knew, but it shouldn’t take a brush with death for me to care about myself. Living in crisis 24/7 and believing that “just surviving” each day is enough isn’t actually healthy. I can’t spend the rest of my life fighting through one battle, hoping I have a break before the next. While I can’t control the external parts of my life that throw me into the fire, I can do little things everyday that build my resistance to the flames.

Slowly but surely I’m coming to the conclusion that life isn’t “all or nothing.” Sometimes life can be a little bit of this and a little bit of that. It sounds cliche and obvious typing it out, but I’ve convinced myself that I knew that for 22 years and today was the first time I believed it.

I am Fine

A week ago I was discharged from the hospital for a stomach ulcer. Technically it’s two but only one bleeding one that resulted in me yakking approximately a third of my blood all over the entrance of a bar (that had only been open for a week I might add). I am fine now, minus an annoyingly bland and restricted diet that requires me to fight against 6 years of eating disorder recovery, but at the same time I’m frustrated.

I’m not frustrated with the fact that I have an ulcer or have to cut out all of my comfort foods and caffeine and alcohol, but more so the fact that everyone else is making this a bigger deal than I am.

When I was a kid (and I’m sure many kids with mental illnesses can relate) I wanted a physical ailment to get people to care. I was popping 13 pills a day in eighth grade trying to lower my daily panic attack average to <15 and no one understood that. I didn’t parade my diagnoses around at all, but to the friends I had mustered up the courage to be vulnerable to and explain what was happening, they didn’t fucking get it.

Sure, I get it, preteens aren’t the most intellectually advanced when it comes to explaining the complexities and realties of OCD and panic disorder and depression. But still, it was something that was important to me and I just wanted to feel seen and heard.

I didn’t want and I certainly now do not want any kind of pity or sympathy, just to feel like my openness wasn’t going to waste.

As I’ve grown older and obtained a bipolar diagnosis and gone through plenty of supplements and meds and doctors for an almost 22-year-old, I’ve realized that I don’t crave being seen as much anymore — at least not in more intimate settings.

And this goddamn ulcer has solidified that to me even more.

I have opened up here and there about some “scary” symptoms of bipolar that have arisen in the past year or so and while in the moment people have been receptive, that moment is fleeting. That is not meant to bash on any of my friends because a lot of what I am going through is hard to wrap your head around when you’re not going through it. I also don’t talk about it a whole bunch so it’s not something I can or would be upset about because I get it.

But at the exact same time, after I have repeatedly said over and over again that I am fine and I want to move on from the big hullabaloo and just heal and get on with my life, everyone seems to think that this is the time for them to cash in on their sympathy cards.

One of the reasons I don’t feel the need to talk about every little nitty gritty detail of how my mind is fucking me up, is because I don’t need every other conversation I have to be about it.

I get that everyone means well but it's frustrating to know that one of the only reasons they are checking in for this is because it’s tangible and scary for them — and they don’t even consciously recognize that. It’s not their fault but I’m also not going to spend my time trying to explain that to every fucking person.

The only positive I can see from this is that at least 13 year old me was proven right. People do care more about the physical than the mental no matter how hard you try.