Greener Grass

*The content below may be triggering to those affected by suicide or self harm. 

 

In eighth grade, I swallowed an entire bottle of painkillers in an attempt to kill myself. In ninth grade, things weren’t much better, and eventually two of my friends reported me to the school guidance counselors because I was cutting my wrists. My second suicide attempt came shortly after. Looking back, I knew I didn’t really want to die, and I still don’t—despite my low points, I haven’t (truly) considered suicide since.

Summer, 2016: I moved back home after my freshman year of college in New York City. I was depressed. I hated my personality and appearance, and I didn’t want to do anything or talk to anyone. I’ve thought a lot about the best way to describe how depression feels, and I think the answer is that it doesn’t. I recognized this absence of feeling and told my psychiatrist, who took one look at my medical chart and prescribed me some antidepressants.

First she put me on Zoloft, but when I told her it made me feel like a zombie, she put me on Prozac instead. After a few weeks, I noticed some improvement. Actually, a crazy amount of improvement. I was on top of the world! It was a miracle drug!

I took my medication religiously, even after I started feeling better, in fear that the feeling would stop. I started loving the way I looked which led me to being more social, and that led to an awful lot of drinking. I engaged in other forms of risky behavior, too, like sex with multiple partners without protection, spending huge sums of money, and driving under the influence. My thoughts became rapid and I could complete tasks like reading a book in half the time it would normally take; some days I’d talk so fast I had to repeat myself a few times before anyone could understand me. I didn’t need to sleep and I had endless amounts of energy and inspiration. It was like the world couldn’t keep up with me—I was untouchable.

One day, I was in Sephora picking out some eyeliner. Makeup is expensive, and I had already blown all my paychecks that summer. I looked around the store and decided that I could just take the makeup—they wouldn’t catch me. I was literally a god. I could walk right out of that store, without even hiding it in my purse, and no one would stop me.

As any sane person would recognize, I was wrong. Immediately as I left the store, a security guard shouted after me. I paused, and she confronted me about the eyeliner in my hand. I told her I took it, but assured I was going to give it back to her and leave—thinking that would be that. I was in control here. I handed her the eyeliner and started to run, but she convinced me to stay by saying that she wouldn’t call the police if I came with her. In my frenzy, I believed her.

So I got arrested.

It was one of the scariest hours of my life. I came down from Cloud 9 shortly after the police were called, breaking into full-on hysterics. I’m pretty sure I was still crying in my mug-shot. I had just turned 18 so the case would be brought to court, and I’d have a record. Mind you, I was the kind of kid who never even got detention in elementary school, the smarty-pants honors kid who would do anything the teacher told me to do. Getting arrested for shoplifting was so out of character for me, in fact, that my lawyer advised I get a mental health evaluation. I was desperate, so I did. Instead of going back to the psychiatrist in my hometown, I went to a new doctor, and I’m forever thankful that I did.

The doctor listened to me talk for an hour, asking questions here and there, and then the room fell silent. “I think you have bipolar disorder,” she said. “Type one. Do you know what that is?”

“Well, yeah sorta. It’s just when your mood changes really fast, right?”

Not quite. She told me it was much more complicated than that. Bipolar disorder, I would learn, is characterized by periods of high moods, called manic episodes, and low swings of depression. Sometimes these periods last for a few weeks or months, but they could even stretch into years. They don’t have to alternate, either, and there can be periods of balance in between. All of this makes it really easy to misdiagnose bipolar disorder as depression; no one looks for help when they’re doing well.

I told her how one time I felt the need to change so intensely that I bleached my hair six times in two days, spending $600 so I could walk away as a new—platinum blonde—person. How, since then, I’d had another five hair colors. How I’d had unprotected sex with ten people in ten days. How I’d spent lots of money and tried lots of drugs, and most notably, how I had reached a borderline delusional state of mania in which I committed a reckless act that led to legal consequences.

But I’d also grappled with on-and-off-again depression for years. It never made sense to me, but the more I sat there and thought about it, the more evident it became that there was a chemical imbalance in my brain.

“What do I do now, then?”

“We can put you on a mood stabilizer. There’s a really good one that has little-to-no side effects called Lamictal. You have to start the dosage low and work your way up, but I think the process is worth it.”She told me that there was no known cure for bipolar disorder, that no one really knew what causes it. The purpose of the medication, she said, was to either lessen the severity of my episodes or put as much time between them as possible.

“Ideally, it’ll do both, but I need your cooperation.”

“Okay.”

*  *  * 

At first, I wanted to talk about the diagnosis. I actually posted about it on Instagram, excited to finally figure out what was wrong with me, and glad to put a name to my insanity. I suddenly had a chemical reason for the things I felt and did. But my dad told me to take the post down and not to tell anyone. Technically, it’s considered a disability; socially, it’s considered crazy.

I stopped talking about it with anyone except for my closest friend, and even then, she didn’t really understand. No one truly can, unless they too have bipolar disorder. It’s isolating. Many of my friends can relate to feelings of depression or anxiety, but full-on mania is an entirely different animal.

After that initial psychiatrist visit, it seemed like I was there every other week. My psychiatrist was right in that there were no physical side effects, but Lamictal made my thoughts groggy and jumbled; sometimes I even had trouble talking. It made me completely lose my libido, and quite honestly made me numb to most feelings. I remember thinking: this is stabilizing me, but at what cost?

As I grappled with the medication and the new label that felt stuck to my forehead, I sunk into a deep depression. That semester I felt even lower than I had in the eighth grade. I didn’t get out of bed for days at a time and my roommate (bless her soul) would have to force me to eat fruit or soup. I didn’t want to shower. I didn’t want to see anyone or do anything, and I actually had to make a deal with one of my TAs to ensure I could pass all my classes after missing so many. I cried all the time and could barely look in a mirror. I slept constantly because I didn’t want to be awake, and I distanced myself from everyone I knew because I felt like a burden. It was more than just emptiness; it was like the normal version of myself had been dumped out, and the shell had been filled with lead. This depression was heavy.

My next few doctor visits were spent trying to figure out which medicine I could take to make myself feel better without triggering another manic episode. Basically, taking SSRIs that previous summer had induced mania, and had done so quickly. Even though I was depressed, the extra serotonin could overload my brain and leave me feeling crazy. I felt so shitty that I begged the doctor to let me try them, and she prescribed me Paxil.

I have type one bipolar disorder, which is characterized by at least one very bad manic episode. I thought my first one was bad, but it couldn’t have prepared me for the second one, which came on within a few weeks of taking the Paxil.

Suddenly, I hadn’t slept in days. I locked myself in my bathroom, screaming to my roommate that there were people in our room. There weren’t. It was my first episode of psychosis, my first true break from reality.

After my roommate (who is also my best friend, I should mention) calmed me down enough to get me into bed, I started hallucinating again; the ceiling was burning and there were bugs in my bed, crawling up my arms. It was terrifying. The next day I immediately went to the doctors, where they prescribed me some sort of sedative to knock me out. Over the next few weeks, we went back and forth in finding the perfect cocktail of medications. Many of them had horrible side effects, many were too risky to even try, but eventually I found my balance.

* * *

I don’t like myself when I’m manic. I get irritated easily, I snap, I don’t think straight, I become selfish, I hurt people—and as a result, most people don’t like me, either. My depression reminds me of that: leaving me stuck in bed, skipping class, not showering, not eating. I used to characterize myself as “manic Sam” and “depressed Sam.” Now, I’m here to tell you that I’m neither. I’m just Sam.

A big part of my healing has actually had nothing to do with medication. Instead, it has been about identity, learning to understand and work with myself. Instead of saying “I am bipolar,” I like to say that, “I have bipolar disorder.” This distinction might not be important to most people, but to me, it’s everything. My illness does not define me. It is a burden I carry, but it is not synonymous with me. Not all of my choices are because I am in the middle of an episode, but because I have valid thoughts, feelings, and reactions to the world around me. I’ve gained agency again by telling myself that I am responsible for everything I do, delusional or not. In a sense, it’s given me control.

Some of my self-determined responsibilities include recognizing when things are starting to swing one way or another, and going to see a psychiatrist accordingly. There were times when I refused to take medication because I didn’t want to be dependent on them, but I soon learned that making the choice to take them is a lot more impressive, as well as necessary. I also complement the chemically-based medication with vitamin supplements, exercise, healthy foods, reading, and writing. I try to take care of my mind and body with a type of self care that’s a lot more effective than face masks.

It’s also really important to talk about an illness like this with loved ones, especially your partner. My current boyfriend is willing to listen to me when I need to explain myself or voice my frustrations, and he is an absolute angel for doing so. In turn, it has helped him understand what the signs of an oncoming manic episode look like, and he helps me become more aware of it myself. It’s especially important to communicate things like a decreased libido. For a while, my ex-boyfriend thought my low sex drive was due to not finding him attractive anymore, when in actuality, it was a side effect of my medication. I ended up changing some pills because I valued my sex life when there were other pharmaceutical options available that wouldn’t decrease my libido. I no longer have that problem with my current boyfriend. I’m proof a healthy sex life is possible on medication—it’s just a matter of finding which medications work best for you. I’ve tried thirteen different combinations over the last two years, and I’ve only just found one that works for me.

A few months ago, another depressive episode hit, and I am now happily taking 300mg of an atypical antidepressant called Wellbutrin with 450mg of Lamictal. Those are almost scary-high doses for many people, but it works perfectly for me. I just got back from a semester in Sydney, Australia and am now living with my boyfriend in NYC, working a retail job, and interning at a magazine. Next semester is my senior year and I’ll be taking 18 credits, working as a writing tutor and research assistant, writing my honors thesis, completing my creative writing capstone project, and hopefully preparing for a job teaching English abroad. I am legally registered with a disability, yet I’m doing more than most kids my age. It is possible to live with bipolar disorder. And if you see bits of yourself in this piece, I want you, especially, to know that it’s possible to thrive with it too.

* * * 

One night, during a breakdown, I called my sister on the phone. “Why can’t I just be normal?” I asked through tears.

“Well, then you just wouldn’t be you,” she said. “You love more deeply than anyone I know, Sam.”

I’ve thought about that night a lot. If given the chance, I don’t think I would get rid of this illness completely. It’s isolating and confusing and debilitating, yes, but I feel things a lot deeper because of it. I swear my grass is always a little greener than everyone else’s, no matter which side of the fence I’m on.