Living With Bipolar…

How do you feel when you are dia­gnosed with a poten­tially leth­al health con­di­tion that maybe lifelong? Dev­ast­ated?  Usu­ally. Shocked? Def­in­itely. Relieved? Yes, if you have struggled for a dec­ade before it and now have a chance for treat­ment that will help rather than exacer­bate it as has happened for years. Except in the case of bipolar dis­order the main feel­ing is con­fu­sion. Because it’s eti­ology is a mys­tery. It plays out dif­fer­ently in every single suf­fer­er that endures it. Some have one epis­ode in their lives, and nev­er have to seek help again. Some are blighted for life and nev­er have much peace. Some get by without med­ic­a­tion, some need to leave the chem­ist every month with car­ri­er bags full. Some nev­er require hos­pit­al treat­ment. Some are in and out. At the stage of dia­gnos­is, in 2007, I was relieved, a weight lif­ted off my shoulder, because I had suffered for so long with treat­ments that only made me worse until I saw my first con­sult­ant who turned out to be a god­send and, as I was to later real­ise, a rar­ity in the men­tal health sys­tem, someone who deeply cared for the patient. An in truth, I already knew my dia­gnos­is. I did not know the route it would take from there. Sadly, so far I have fallen into all of the lat­ter com­part­ments in terms of eti­ology.

Bipolar dis­order is in essence more of the split per­son­al­ity assump­tions that people mis­use to describe schizo­phrenia. Lit­er­ally it means exist­ing on two extreme poles, mania and depres­sion. “But we all have that” I have heard more times than I can count. And yes we all can flip from happy to sad. But when I am man­ic, I lose all inhab­it­a­tions, don’t sleep or eat for days at a time and feel only ener­gised, start think­ing you have god like attri­bu­tions, believe you are destined for great­ness, speak to strangers, take risks with said strangers, accrue £30,000 debts because you can­not stop spend­ing, get unplanned tat­toos, climb on your consultant’s desk because you are climb­ing to heav­en and walk down the street claim­ing every­one exclud­ing your­self is Satan. Oh, and the reas­on they, includ­ing the drs call it being ‘high’ when someone is in a man­ic epis­ode is because you are just that, it is like being on crack per­man­ently minus the crack, minus the comedown and for free. Sounds good? Ini­tially yes. It is the most incred­ibly euphor­ic feel­ing in the world. But it comes at a heavy price. Even­tu­ally the cracks show. Lack of sleep, or extreme mania alone cause para­noia, voices and psy­chos­is. And the come down of all come downs.

Now let’s talk about the depres­sion. Most people with bipolar, myself included, spend much of their time in this mood state. Last year I was hos­pit­al­ised for six months with a crip­pling depres­sion that would not shift. I believed the dev­il was pun­ish­ing me and that I was meant to die. The psy­chi­at­rists tried everything. Noth­ing worked. They des­per­ately went through the text­book. They went through every med­ic­a­tion.  Noth­ing. I was dying. Ulti­mately only my phys­ic­al heart was beat­ing. I had saved and snuck in 200 pills. In des­per­a­tion I took them. I had to be rushed by ambu­lance to resus at a and e. But the pain could go on no longer. So, they pulled the last trick out of the bag. Elec­tro-con­vuls­ive-Ther­apy (ECT), famed through films like One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. It is much maligned, feared, and now, used only in emer­gen­cies. I jumped at the chance. I was not scared of hav­ing to go under gen­er­al anaes­thet­ic with elec­trodes on my head and hav­ing elec­tri­city passed through me. I was scared of not hav­ing it. It was my last hope. In the end I needed 12 ses­sions of ect to start to come back to ‘me’ again. Expres­sions on my flat face slowly began to return. Life star­ted to beat through my veins once again. ECT is an age old and rarely used treat­ment used only in the most des­per­ate and non respond­ent of cases. It wipes a lot of memory, and it works. I lived through a time where I knew I was not going to make it. And now, I still pinch myself, or treas­ure the air I breathe because I don’t know how I am still alive.

But even between epis­odes. I struggle. Every day is a battle. Even the smal­lest tasks are moun­tain­ous for me. I exists on anti­psychot­ics, two mood sta­bil­isers, and two anti­de­press­ants every day. Add to that side effect tab­lets plus meth­adone then we are look­ing at a lot of pills. And they are dan­ger­ous. Lith­i­um causes thyroid prob­lems and kid­ney dam­age.  My anti­psychot­ic was caus­ing a dan­ger­ous heart con­di­tion that they knew about and left for two years where I could have had a car­di­ac arrest at any time.

I have been in hos­pit­al 8 times in the last 3 years alone. These exper­i­ences are soul des­troy­ing. Because you do not feel as if you are unwell and in hos­pit­al; you feel you are bad and in pris­on. You are often treated like a crim­in­al. There is often little empathy and com­pas­sion. In dis­tress one night, with voices scream­ing at me to cut my throat I went to the nurses for help and had doors slammed in my face, was screamed at to go to my room, and then told off for not ask­ing them for med­ic­a­tion when I had been for help five times. Every time I leave hos­pit­al I have to rebuild my life from noth­ing. And then you get read­mit­ted and everything you have built gets knocked down again. Find­ing the will to keep going is hard. Admit­tedly at points I have even said “what’s the point in build­ing up a life”

My ill­ness has lead to many sui­cide attempts, some nearly fatal. Dozens of times in insti­tu­tions. A heroin and crack addic­tion to over­come from which I almost lost my arm and needed four emer­gency sur­ger­ies. I’ve seen young friends die tra­gic­ally. Too Unne­ces­sary. Too young. Too sad. But I chose to use it well. And these exper­i­ences have changed me for the bet­ter. Would I have asked for this con­di­tion? Nev­er.  Would I go back and change them? Maybe  not.  Because I have learnt we don’t have long. Noth­ing is guar­an­teed to us. So I have fought hard with fam­ily rela­tion­ships to make them bet­ter, where once they were on thin ice. And I am a kinder, nicer ver­sion of myself, and I judge no one. So in a bag full of rub­bish I have found some glit­ter­ing gifts. Gifts I want to keep for a life­time.

The fol­low­ing two tabs change con­tent below.

• Bio
• Latest Posts

Kate Taylor

Kate Taylor is a Lon­don based writer whose Interests are based primar­ily on music and art and also the philo­sophies and polit­ics that accom­pany them. In addi­tion she has an Msc in psy­cho­logy, has worked as a ther­ap­ist, and paints abstract art pieces.

Latest posts by Kate Taylor (see all)

• NOT FRA­GILE LIKE A FLOWER, FRA­GILE LIKE A BOMB | ‘MOV­ING ON’ BY KATE TAYLOR — Janu­ary 2, 2024
• NOT FRA­GILE LIKE A FLOWER, FRA­GILE LIKE A BOMB… DEAL­ING WITH LOSS BY KATE TAYLOR — July 27, 2023
• NOT FRA­GILE LIKE A FLOWER, FRA­GILE LIKE A BOMB | ‘CHANGES’ BY KATE TAYLOR — June 28, 2023

Read More:

Emo­tion­al Bag­gage: What to do when the suit­case gets too heavy… Event: Rethink (@Rethink_) Present Invis­ible Struggles — Youth Men­tal Well-being Day WELL-BEING | EAT­ING DISORDERS…BY ANY MEANS REVIEW | ‘SOUNDS OF AN UNQUIET MIND’ @MindCharity @MindITHN @QMUL INTER­VIEW | LOWKEY DIS­CUSSES MEN­TAL WELL-BEING AT ‘SOUNDS OF AN UNQUIET MIND’