My Bipolar Journey
Manic depression/bipolar disorder
Same disease, although
You wouldn’t want to have it
It affects your thinking so
Sometimes you get very depressed
You don’t want to move
You just want to die
And then comes the mania
When you can do anything
You can even sprout wings and fly
“Mommy, can I go to a psychiatrist?”
“That’s just for rich people,” says Mommy walking away.
I was all of twelve years old and going into seventh grade. It was 1954 and in those days there was no one else who could help me, no counselors in the schools and no telephone numbers to call. And I often suffered from mania, always laughing and joking around, but I was not happy.
Next came eighth grade and my mania started getting sexual. I would make out with different boys in the school but remained a virgin. In spite of that the kids would call me “Whore! Whore!” I got into a schoolyard fight with V, a girl in my class. I beat the crap out of her.
However, grades nine through twelve I spent at a private school. My experiences there weren’t all perfect, but not as bad as junior high. The kids in high school were more mature and most of them treated me well. The few boys who treated me badly I would just ignore, although I felt hurt. However, there was a girl at school I did not get along with and a girl near where I lived I did not get along with. They were a problem.
I also had trouble getting my homework done. It took me forever and my parents did not understand this. I just could not concentrate on my homework. Instead, I would write poetry, read poetry, read the Bible, and create stories. However, I kept that part of my life to myself. Although, my mother knew I read and wrote poetry and kept saying, “write your poetry down.” This I did and am so grateful to my mother for insisting on this. I’ve been writing poetry since the age of ten.
But I suffered with mania and depression until about the age of thirty, when I was put on medication. What a blessing! Not at first. It wasn’t the right medication, but after a few years I was doing much better.
Then there was the domestic violence. My husband was forever punching me. I told this to some of my psychiatrists but they didn’t do anything about it. I’m finding out now there were things I could have done.
We also had identical twin sons who died shortly after birth because they were born too premature. However, my husband blamed the doctor for their death and since I chose the doctor, he blamed me. He never stopped accusing me of killing my babies.
Today, all is good. I learned to manage my bipolar. When my husband got very sick, he couldn’t abuse me anymore and I took care of him. He died when I was 67 and 4 days.
I am free!