Laura has decided to share her story with us, so show some love here and on her blog as well! Thanks :)
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If you ask my mother, she will tell you I have been hysterical since birth. I am not sure if that is true, or a projection of her mental state. To say my mom was tempestuous in my younger years would be an understatement. I can’t tell you how many mornings I stood out on the driveway waiting for carpool with her burning hand print on my face or thigh. My embarrassed blush never seemed to hide it.
I don’t want you to think I am blaming my mom for my mental problems. I am sure she did the best she could. No doubt she spent a lot of time and energy hiding her own demons. My poor mom was trapped in a Junior League world where her only option was to produce two kids and an impeccably decorated home. All that mattered is that we, as a family, projected the image that all was well.
I guess some of that rubbed off on me, because when I felt the darkness welling up inside me, I never thought to share with anyone. I saw my increasing mental discomfort as something to be deeply ashamed of and didn’t seek the help I needed.
What happened next is somewhat cliché in the bipolar world: self-destructive behavior, self-medication with alcohol and street drugs, and a string of nightmarish relationships.
I made more mistakes in the past than I can count, but one decision I made had surprising consequences.
When things finally got so miserable for me that I felt like I couldn’t go on, I stepped out of the stream of my life, and went to graduate school for photography. In that environment of exploration, I was finally able to use art to process what was going on internally. I also found an excellent psychiatrist who cared enough about me to take the time to find out what was really wrong.
In my final year of grad school I was finally diagnosed as Bipolar, and I began the work of reclaiming my life. I wish I could tell you it was all down hill from there, that the pieces clicked into place, that it all made sense, that I didn’t have any more episodes of self-destructive behavior, and I didn’t get involved with any more inappropriate men.
The reality is that I struggled, and continue to struggle with finding the right medication. I have had trouble finding a support network of friends and family members who understand, and sometimes I still screw up. (That compulsive spending thing is a doozy of a symptom for me) While I have worked to communicate with my parents about how I really feel, sometimes walls come up on both sides and we can’t connect.
Here comes the happy ending! A little over two years ago I decided to try my hand at match.com. I figured there probably wasn’t a guy out there compatible with my particular brand of crazy, so what could it hurt? I dabbled for a while, alternately frustrated by a lack of tempting choices, and hurt because these guys didn’t seem to find me tempting either.
Then lo and behold I decided to email a guy who sounded kind of interesting…we met a week later and got married in Vegas two weeks after that. Our two year wedding anniversary was last Monday, and our son turns one in five weeks.
I still struggle with my meds, trying to find a balance between effect and side effect. To be honest, if I could find a psychologist out here to chat with, I would probably jump on it. I still have days when I feel the darkness lapping at my ankles, and my spending problem is definitely enabled by all those dang cute cloth diapers out there. But you know what, I am happy.
I don’t want you to think I am blaming my mom for my mental problems. I am sure she did the best she could. No doubt she spent a lot of time and energy hiding her own demons. My poor mom was trapped in a Junior League world where her only option was to produce two kids and an impeccably decorated home. All that mattered is that we, as a family, projected the image that all was well.
I guess some of that rubbed off on me, because when I felt the darkness welling up inside me, I never thought to share with anyone. I saw my increasing mental discomfort as something to be deeply ashamed of and didn’t seek the help I needed.
What happened next is somewhat cliché in the bipolar world: self-destructive behavior, self-medication with alcohol and street drugs, and a string of nightmarish relationships.
I made more mistakes in the past than I can count, but one decision I made had surprising consequences.
When things finally got so miserable for me that I felt like I couldn’t go on, I stepped out of the stream of my life, and went to graduate school for photography. In that environment of exploration, I was finally able to use art to process what was going on internally. I also found an excellent psychiatrist who cared enough about me to take the time to find out what was really wrong.
In my final year of grad school I was finally diagnosed as Bipolar, and I began the work of reclaiming my life. I wish I could tell you it was all down hill from there, that the pieces clicked into place, that it all made sense, that I didn’t have any more episodes of self-destructive behavior, and I didn’t get involved with any more inappropriate men.
The reality is that I struggled, and continue to struggle with finding the right medication. I have had trouble finding a support network of friends and family members who understand, and sometimes I still screw up. (That compulsive spending thing is a doozy of a symptom for me) While I have worked to communicate with my parents about how I really feel, sometimes walls come up on both sides and we can’t connect.
Here comes the happy ending! A little over two years ago I decided to try my hand at match.com. I figured there probably wasn’t a guy out there compatible with my particular brand of crazy, so what could it hurt? I dabbled for a while, alternately frustrated by a lack of tempting choices, and hurt because these guys didn’t seem to find me tempting either.
Then lo and behold I decided to email a guy who sounded kind of interesting…we met a week later and got married in Vegas two weeks after that. Our two year wedding anniversary was last Monday, and our son turns one in five weeks.
I still struggle with my meds, trying to find a balance between effect and side effect. To be honest, if I could find a psychologist out here to chat with, I would probably jump on it. I still have days when I feel the darkness lapping at my ankles, and my spending problem is definitely enabled by all those dang cute cloth diapers out there. But you know what, I am happy.
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