Dr. Fighter Dr. Self-Care Lump
This week is National Suicide Prevention Week and I completely forgot about it. Not because the issue isn’t incredibly meaningful to me, but because I’ve been busy writing my dissertation. I’ve been super preoccupied with reading, writing, editing, crying, lying on the floor in frustration, laughing, eating cheese, and being hugged when I really need it, which is standard stuff for doctoral students. I’m going to be a doctor in December and I still can’t believe it and I can’t shut up about it. Why should I? I’m impressive! But in recognition of National Suicide Prevention Week I want to say why I’m really fabulous: I’m a fighter.
I have bipolar disorder and I’m not ashamed of this unfortunate genetic cluster fuck I inherited. As yinz know I talk about my life with mental illness pretty often and I think I do this because it reminds me how strong I am, that I fight this illness every day. Because the fight itself isn’t actually visible to most people. I don’t let people see me when I’m staggering under my depression. I have to stay home with my husband when I’m racecar-manic because I very well could go off and do something reckless. When I’m psychotic and I cry and shake so hard my teeth rattle I barely leave my bedroom. And I don’t tend to let anyone see me when I’m triumphantly fighting my bipolar and winning either because conquering my bipolar means: meds and meds and meds!! Which means I become a sedated lump of self-care. To keep my illness at bay I have to listen to my psychiatrist and stuff myself with medication whilst propped up in my living room with a coloring book wedged in one hand and a purple colored pencil in the other. My brain becomes foggy and sluggish, my movements are delayed, and my emotions are put on pause. Self-care lumpiness isn’t a glamorous look but it shows how fucking fierce I am; I’m fighting and I’m determined to stay alive. To own this illness as much as I can; to do what it takes. Yeah, people don’t see all that, which is why I write about it so damn often. Because my story is important.
And part of my story is that I have attempted suicide before. When I’m psychotic it feels like it isn’t even a choice. The uneven edges of myself I see reflected in my bathroom mirror make overdosing seem necessary. Sitting in my bedroom, tired of squeezing myself so tight to keep from shattering into jagged pieces of freckles, teeth, and frizzy hair, I feel compelled to stop breathing and stop being. That time my head was inundated with thoughts of Jesus, Mother Theresa, and Princess Diana and the disorderly noise of the whole world crying, my psychosis told me that jumping off a bridge was the only way to save a dying planet. Psychosis doesn’t make me want to die; it tells me that it is time to die. But thankfully I don’t listen! I haven’t yet. There have been some dangerously close close calls but I keep on fighting.
Today I had a virtual meeting with my dissertation chair about my first complete draft. He said it was great and the hard work really showed. We talked about what more I needed to do, and honestly, it isn’t a whole lot. I smiled at my MacBook camera and I don’t think he saw my hands shake at all. I didn’t start the meeting by telling him how my thinking is fuzzy because I had to take extra medication last night. The meeting lasted an hour and afterwards I was utterly exhausted. Clinging to crumbling thoughts and stringing them together to uphold your end of a conversation is extra tough with extra Seroquel in your system. My mental illness is super terrific at disrupting my life at incredibly inconvenient times. I have bipolar disorder ALL the time and it doesn’t bother rescheduling its episodes around important meetings. But, mental illness and all, my dissertation is almost done! I’m going to be a doctor soon but I’ve always been a fighter. I know I’ll never stop. This week I celebrate life.
Living with bipolar is hard and it always will be — I have to manage my illness for the rest of my life, which means I am always fighting suicidal thoughts. It also means that I will always need to talk about my mental illness and I’m lucky to have family, friends, and a treatment team that will listen. Stigma is very real and really damaging. It is often fatal. Talking about mental illness saves lives — these conversations are the first step towards getting help, living safely, and getting your life back. And let’s be honest we have all been touched by mental illness in some way so we all would benefit from talking about it. A guy once posted on my mental health blog that the most beautiful phrase he has ever heard is, “you are not alone.” I agree. I hope that all my rambling about mental illness helps someone else just as much as it helps me.
Ok so my brain is a mess right now and between meeting with my chair and writing this, I’m spent. I’m going to lie down, snuggle my dogs, and watch “Clueless.” Who cares if I have to take it easy today or if my hands shake a bit, I’m going to be a doctor in December! I’m a fighter! Woo!
I know how very very very hard it can be being a person but the truth is we all have worth and we are all in this together. Talk loud, love louder, and listen often because this is a universal conversation that saves everyone.
Dedicated to my husband ❤
*originally posted on Facebook 9/7/2016*
