Boy oh boy this is gonna be a big one.
I write in an indirect way about things that are personal to me. I won’t write (publically) unless I feel like I have something to offer the reader, and as far as I’m concerned, you can’t write well if you don’t know what you’re on about.
Throwing that disclaimer out there because this piece feels a lot more selfish. It’s not what I usually do. I guess I kind of have to write this seeing as I’ve been so public about mental health.
Some of you have been following my writing for a hella long time. Thank you by the way. Some of you will have noticed that since April my writing has changed a lot.
Life is funny sometimes, it does a real 180 on you in an instant. In April it felt like everything was falling apart and crashing down around me (as you might have noticed considering I wrote the articles linked below during that time*), but since then, things have changed a lot.
Anyways, to get to the point, last week I went to the doctor about my mental health. For years I have been led to believe that I have bipolar. I was taken to the doctor when I was 11 by a carer of mine, got a referral, and was not taken to the referral because my carer became scared of what might happen ‘when’ I got a diagnosis.
I’ve been incredibly open about mental health and to be honest it’s the reason I started writing a blog. In 2017 after I pretty much hit rock bottom I wrote a 3 piece blog about ‘feeling suicidal without wanting to die’ (my first ever blog, how bold of me), how to pull yourself out of a tough time, and then about moving on. Since then I’ve written about bipolar, I’ve written about the frustration that comes with mental health not being spoken about constructively, I’ve written about antidepressants and how I was sick of people telling me to go on them.
A lot of what I have done career wise in the last few years has been based around my overbearing desire to prevent people from feeling what I felt back then.
I removed all those blog posts last week when I finally went to the doctor myself and it was revealed that despite being led to believe that I have bipolar for a very long time, I in fact, do not have bipolar. The doctor actually told me that I have been dealing incredibly well with the circumstances I have been put in while trying to deal with the childhood trauma I haven’t sought professional help for, and they referred me to get therapy to help with all the fuckery that has accumulated in my brain as a result.
Following that appointment I pretty much hysterically cried every time I was alone for 2 days straight.
I was releasing an overwhelming surge of relief, anger, frustration, loneliness, sorrow, feelings that I couldn’t even comprehend.
I am so incredibly happy and relieved to have it revealed that I do not suffer with bipolar. I have seen bipolar, and it is horrible. I am so happy that I am finally being heard.
That being said, I’m fucking angry. I am so incredibly angry. I have been telling the few people I turn to for support for the last few years that I need help. I have been crying out and telling people that the reasons I am upset are not all in my head, what I am dealing with isn’t normal.
I have been my own parent since I was probably like, 12 years old. My background is fairly unique. I have written about it before, I won’t go into it again.
What hits me the most is that I kept my life a secret for the sake of saving people (who clearly couldn’t give a fuck about me) from judgement. I was a martyr. All this time, if I just would have spoken to someone, I might have skipped the years of deceit. People wanted me to be quiet, so I was.
Because bipolar runs in my family, I wasn’t listened to. People took one look at me and didn’t look at the fact that I spent my childhood being kicked out, threatened, parentified, isolated; they looked at my family tree. They looked at a kid who was angry (because she wasn’t being listened to) and they decided ‘that individual is out of control, just like her relative’. I was facing stigma that I was not in a group to face stigma with. I was facing stigma and I couldn’t even find a group to support me through it, because I am not a part of the group who faces the stigma.
I’m sorry, is that not mad? Because honestly at this point I cannot tell what is mad and what is not anymore.
I went to the doctors with someone who was genuinely concerned about my mental health and wellbeing, they wanted to help me because they sincerely believed that something was wrong.
The doctor asked me about my life. Each and every area of it, and she wanted stories too. Childhood, family, relationships, work, my history, school, how I coped with it all, how I cope with it now.
It was horrible. The doctor looked at the person I was with, and then they both looked at me, and their faces were horrible. I hated seeing it. It was a look of remorse, guilt, pity, all this fucking horrible emotion manifesting on their faces making me realise ‘shit, nothing is okay and I’m not sure that it will be’.
See what I mean when I said this wouldn’t be a usual article?
It’s one thing to live through trauma, and it’s another to talk about it. On paper, it’s just dreadful. Just pure dreadful. Doom and gloom galore. People look at you with a face full of pity and all of a sudden you feel like a character in a god-awful soap opera who should be overlain with a gloomy violin composure as they discuss the hardships of their life. In reality, you can’t look at life that way or you’ll become some dark and emo-esque character that you hate identifying as. You become a victim of circumstance, and it’s just fucking boring. So you crack jokes, you find something to laugh about, you become a little eccentric. You try to be happy. You begin to notice how everybody around you is also falling apart in their own little way.
That’s how you get by.
I’ve been joking and laughing and hula hooping to get by, and now it’s acknowledged that getting by is temporary- fuck knows mate.
When I saw that look on their faces, I realised that my old way of getting through would not work anymore because now I’m going to have people try and help me and I don’t know how to have that.
I start therapy on Wednesday.
Why am I writing about this and being so freakishly open, you might ask?
Because what the fuck else is there to do.
If my life is going to be like a fucking god awful and borderline unbelievable soap opera, what else is there to do but make a story out of it?
I’m not going to hide it.