One night I couldn’t sleep. I got in my car and drove around town at four in the morning for hours. My thoughts were racing a million miles a minute and I couldn’t slow them down; I was absolutely restless. I didn’t end up sleeping at all that night. But I wasn’t tired the next day – I felt just as energized as ever.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was in the midst of a manic episode. That same week, I didn’t eat for six days and I didn’t sleep much at all, yet I was never tired. I was skipping classes for no reason other than that I couldn’t bring myself to sit still for a class period when I had so much energy and my mind was moving so fast.
A few weeks later, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. After repeated episodes of mania like I described, and depressive episodes where I would sleep for 23 hours or was unable to move from my bed all day, my RA grew concerned.
She helped arrange an appointment with the school’s psychological services, which didn’t go well at all. After two horrible experiences, I finally met with a counselor who understood what I was dealing with. He said, “Heather, I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is that I know what you’re dealing with. And the bad news is that it’s not going away – you’re going to be dealing with this for the rest of your life. And it’s hard.” Next he told me a little bit about bipolar disorder and read me the symptoms. I was in tears because I had never heard anyone describe me so well.
He connected me with a psychiatrist who couldn’t see me for three months. Three whole months! I think this is unacceptable. People with cases worse than mine could die in three months. Some bipolar people are suicidal and can’t get the help they so desperately need in time to save them. Timing is everything. So I had to wait for this appointment and live with the knowledge I now had for much too long.
The disorder got worse while I waited. I was doing things that were completely uncharacteristic of my personality and it worried a lot of people who are close to me.
I stayed on campus for Thanksgiving because I didn’t feel like facing my family. They were disappointed and didn’t understand because I hadn’t yet shared with them the news of my diagnosis. I was alone because of course everyone else went home to be with their families. I was lonely and depressed with my only company being my beta fish, who doesn’t even like me.
For the first couple days, I slept a lot and laid in bed, crying until I couldn’t breathe anymore. But the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I woke up feeling elated. I had never felt so good before, so high. My mind was racing as fast as ever and suddenly an idea popped into it: a tattoo. I decided that I needed a white-ink, circle tattoo on my right wrist. And I didn’t just need it; I had to have it, right then, before I could do or think anything else. I didn’t give it a second thought because my mind was set.
I waltzed myself into a sketchy tattoo parlor and told them exactly what I wanted. The artist strongly advised against white-ink, but I told him that I wanted it anyway. Reluctantly, he led me to the chair. White-ink tattoos are supposed to hurt a lot more but I felt absolutely no pain. I skipped all the way back to my dorm, finally satisfied.
A couple days later, I was in a coffee shop when a man approached me. He was cute and charming but he looked a lot older. He told me that he was twenty-six. I’m nineteen, so the age difference was obvious. We talked for a few minutes and he asked for my number. We texted a little bit but I didn’t think anything would come of it.
Weeks later, he texted me, asking me to come over to his apartment at 11 PM. Normally I wouldn’t ever dream of doing such a thing. I’m usually very careful and reserved. But that night, I thought it was an excellent idea. He was going to pick me up in half an hour, so I hurried to get ready.
I put on too much makeup and an outfit that I thought would make me look older. I was getting ready in a friend’s room because I was trying to be secretive about the whole situation. I happened to have some vodka and orange juice in the room, and I thought it would help ease my nerves if I drank some of it. I took a few big sips and I was immediately feeling it.
My friend walked in to check on me, with about ten minutes until the guy was supposed to arrive. She noticed that I’d been drinking and asked me why. I told her it would make it easier and she told me that I didn’t have to go. I told her that yes, I did have to go. I just had to. I couldn’t explain why because I had no reason.
She told me that I was making a decision that could ruin my life; one that I might regret forever. She begged me not to go but I was still determined. All of a sudden, feeling the alcohol more now, I looked up at her and started crying. Sobbing, actually. Deep down, I’d never wanted to go. I was just being reckless and impulsive because I was out of control. I texted the guy and told him I was sick, and spent the night sobbing on my friend’s futon. I kept telling her that I didn’t want to feel this way anymore: I just wanted to feel numb.
In the months before I finally saw the psychiatrist and started medication, I did many things that I regret. I drank a lot more than I should have, and that just aided me in making bad decisions. I dyed my hair black and I pierced my own ears more than once.
If you’d known me before I got so out of control, you would’ve known a girl who was the Youth Deacon at church, studied hard and made good grades, volunteered at an orphanage in Honduras, and spent her free time reading, singing and babysitting.
The new Heather terrified me but I had no way of stopping the tornado I’d become. My proudest moment was the day I walked out of my first appointment with my psychiatrist, having agreed to medication. I was ashamed and hesitant, and accepting the help I needed was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It was also the best thing I’ve ever done.
The medication occasionally made me sick and I didn’t love the side effects. I resented it and didn’t necessarily take my recovery seriously at first. I didn’t really tell anyone what I was going through and I was lying about my whereabouts when I had doctor’s appointments or therapy.
Now, it’s seven months later, and I sent out an email last night to my friends and family, telling them what I’ve been struggling with. The support I’ve received and the relief I now feel is overwhelming. I’m doing so much better and I am now committed to my health and recovery.
Today, I look down at my tattoo and wonder what I was thinking. If I could go back and change things, I wouldn’t have this circle permanently on my wrist. But it’s kind of like a scar now, reminding me what I’ve been through. I’ve learned that pain is an opportunity for growth. A great one, actually. Mental health is a serious issue, one that comes with stigmas and shame. But it’s what I’ve decided to dedicate my life to fight for. I want to fight for my own health and for the health of others, and it’s a battle I’m not willing to lose.
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