Batshit Crazy, Or Just Insane?

These days when I'm not doing much of anything, I spend a lot of time just cruising, surfing the net for little tidbits. I found this gem posted on a manosphere blog, as part of a list of types of women to be avoided.

Batshit crazy: She has a diagnosable mental disorder, usually depression, bipolar disorder, borderline personality or sociopathy. She might also have one or more addictions. She hooks the man through rapid sexual escalation and universal sexual availability. Wildly unpredictable, sexually aggressive and susceptible to extreme mood swings — from loving and gift-giving to physical violence. This type must be avoided at all cost.

 I won't share the name of the blog or the commenter, because those are irrelevant (though how funny that it was posted exactly one day before I ended up in the ER). The truth is that this mentality is quite common, even among social work professors. I want to write about my experience in more detail because I want people to understand what bipolar disorder is and what it is not. I will also freely admit that I knew nothing about it until I experienced it, so I actually do understand the misconceptions and stigma surrounding bipolar disorder and mental illness in general. However, I think it's important to address these stigmas, and as someone with firsthand experience, this is my responsibility--i.e., it's on me to explain myself, it's not on the rest of the world to seek out information. So without further ado, this is the story of my manic episode.

The episode probably began during spring break, though I didn't start feeling its full effects until I was back on campus about to start school again. The beginning was marked by an incredible feeling of not needing to eat or sleep. I had energy without sleeping so I'd stay up all night, or go to sleep for two hours and be fine the next stay. Eating felt like an extraneous activity, so while I ate very small bits, I avoided mealtimes, or only ate a few bites. 

Meanwhile, ideas started flooding into my mind at the speed of light. One moment I'd consider dropping out of school to start my own organization, the next moment I'd be thinking about writing a book. The more warped the concepts were, the more crystal clear they seemed in my mind. At one point, I decided that every single personal conflict that ever occurred could be cataloged into the same 3-role structure, with a bully using a follower (a weak person) to attack a victim (a strong person) and push the victim out of the group. It was so clear I almost called my former best friend to tell her how I suspected it was a mutual friend who had come between us.

I didn't get that far though, because things started getting weirder. Psychosis is a symptom of lack of sleep, and I was headed in that direction. I woke up (after 1 hour of sleep!) one morning and was completely convinced that my teacher of eight years (I went to a weird private school until ninth grade) had sexually abused me, and that the only reason I couldn't remember specifics was that it had happened when I was a very small child, and that I'd repressed the memory. I was so sure that I e-mailed an old classmate to ask if it had happened to her (even looking back makes me go "WTF?"). I also called my parents, who were completely confused and doubtful. As the day went on, I started getting progressively more wacked out, to the point that they asked if I'd fallen and hit my head. I also started losing my short-term memory. I couldn't remember the day or the date, and I hadn't attended class.

The next morning I had left reality. I told Popeye that my computer and phone were hacked, and that people were spying on me. My aunt arrived from a nearby town and they took me to the ER of a psych hospital, where there'd been a fatal shooting just a few days prior. This did not go over well with me, as I was convinced someone knew I was going to end up there, and that they were trying to kill me. When my parents showed up, I was happy to see them, but proceeded to freak out about my younger brother (he goes to the same school). In my mind I had some twisted idea that he'd been trying to sell me to another country as part of a secret society he worked for, and that because my parents had arrived to protect me, something horrible was going to happen to him. 

The doctors did a bunch of tests and found a cyst on my brain. They wanted to do an MRI, and they gave me a provisional diagnosis of early onset psychosis and schizophrenia, but they wouldn't admit me. So my parents took me home for 3 or 4 long days, where I got much  worse. Everything I read or viewed or heard took on an alternate meaning. When I looked at books or magazines, certain words and letters would pop out on the page in a mysterious but solvable code (if you've ever seen the movie A Beautiful Mind about John Nash, it was exactly like that). Everything in my life seemed simultaneously connected and disconnected. 

On some level I must have understood that I was mentally ill, because my brain started bringing up every famous person or movie character I've known about who was mentally ill. Sometimes I felt like I'd been possessed by the spirit of Sylvia Plath. Other times I had this feeling that I'd killed my own children, like the woman in Shutter Island (sorry, spoilers!). When I started hallucinating, it was of horrible, terrifying images I'd only seen in scary movies. At one point, I was sitting in front of the TV, the picture flickered, and there stood the little girl from The Ring beside a well (I haven't seen that movie since I was 14--10 years ago--and I still remember that fucking well scene). After that I was convinced she'd come out of the TV, and I spent a lot of time screaming at my parents to "TURN THE RED LIGHT OFF" (if you have a newer TV, you know how the little light on the TV is red if it's off, blue if it's on). Finally, when I looked into the TV and saw my own reflection, I realized that maybe I was the little girl killing people, which, in some sort of distorted way, makes sense. Parts of the video people watch in The Ring are shots of that little girl in an insane asylum, and I was clearly insane.

When my parents finally managed to get me back to the hospital (i.e. drive me across the state), the technicians refused to perform the MRI because I wouldn't stay still (well duh). Instead they sent me back to the ER for another evaluation, where we waited for hours until my dad actually asked the woman at the desk if this was some sort of "monkey business operation." After that my mom called my cousin, who's a doctor, and she recommended a hospital that was closer to home, and one of the best in the country. So after a few more days at home (during which I started hearing voices, who were thankfully mostly comforting; one was Popeye, letting me know I could talk to him in my head anytime I wanted because we were "soulmates" lol... I don't believe in soulmates, but wouldn't that be cool??) my parents took me to the second hospital, where I stayed for nine days. I actually don't remember the first half of my stay there, but apparently I told the nurses that the psychiatrist was "the fat man" who was going to "stuff me in the oven." I'd lost a ton of weight and was probably down to between 80 and 85 pounds (I'm normally 95ish), and once the drugs kicked in I spent most of my time sleeping.

While I was in the hospital, they tested me for something called Townes-Brocks Syndrome, a genetic condition I was born with. Geneticists think TBS patients are at a higher risk for mental illness, and my case is to be included in the medical literature. 

A couple of things are important to note. First, mania is not part of my normal day-to-day personality, nor is depression. I am not given to constant mood swings, nor am I constantly causing drama with Popeye. Anyone who knows me will say I'm fairly quiet and laid back, and unlike what you just read, I have a pretty firm grip on reality. I think the number one misconception about mental illness is that it's a personality trait. It can become a personality trait if someone refuses to take medicine, and I've heard that when untreated, bipolar can become much more severe (manic episodes are more frequent and last longer). 

Which brings me to my next point. Many believe that mental illness is not just a personality trait but a personality flaw that can be overcome through self-improvement. I actually thought this too, for a long time. I had been medicated for depression several times, but always thought that I could work through it without medicine. I still believe that many people who suffer from depression can do this (and think anti-depressants are handed out like candy, especially on college campuses), but bipolar disorder is an entirely different animal. It's also extremely important to recognize that, in many cases, these illnesses are biological in nature. Some develop in people who have been exposed to trauma, but there is a large genetic component. 

Finally, psychosis was probably the most terrifying thing I've ever experienced. The problem with living in an alternate reality is that all your worst fears that "could never happen in real life" can be realized. I would not wish it on my worst enemy, and I will do everything in my power to make sure I never experience it again. That means keeping my life stress- and drama-free, taking my medicine religiously, and following up with my doctor. It is only when stigmas about mental illness are perpetuated that mentally ill people try to hide or ignore the problem, or deny it exists, which is when it becomes worse. It is only with acceptance and honesty that these issues can be addressed appropriately, and I will always be grateful that the people around me are supportive and understanding. 

A Quick (Boring) Update

Well this new blog has turned out to be one big fail. Not for lack of trying though... I've started writing posts at least 10 times before deciding they weren't good enough. Though the quality of my writing has been compromised, I'm still quite the perfectionist; not a great combination.

As for my personal growth, well, can't say there's been much progress. I dropped out of school about two weeks ago, which shouldn't be a surprise; I didn't really feel ready for it, and only went back because I felt pressured by my doctor and my academic advisor, and because I wanted to get out of my parents' house (love my parents, but at the age of 24, living at home isn't exactly exciting). Anyway, now that I'm out of school, my main mission is to find a job, which is a really daunting task. I'll likely end up getting a crappy retail job to pay the bills while I look for something more related to a permanent career, but these days I'm not sure what my career goals are, so that certainly doesn't help.

In the meantime, I've been spending a lot of time sitting on my ass. My days and nights are all mixed up because Popeye works the night shift, and when he's not here I have a really hard time sleeping (chalk it up to terrifying flashbacks from my week of hallucinations). But the nights by myself are relatively cheerful and are mostly spent cleaning, knitting, and watching the food network. I'm currently knitting myself a comfy wool cowl for the winter, and I think my next project will be a baby hat for someone in Popeye's family who is expecting. Popeye actually said he'd wear a sweater if I made him one, but my skills aren't quite there yet. Maybe gloves though!

Speaking of Popeye, he hasn't been having a very easy time either these days. He's working two jobs that are pretty beneath him, and he hates having to interact with nasty customers and idiotic coworkers. He only has one semester left of school and he's a STEM guy, so once he finishes he'll be in a much better place, but getting back is a financial struggle at the moment. It's funny though... in terms of actual relationship dynamics, things have never been better for us. Living together has gone really well so far; we've found a nice balance of spending time together and giving each other space. Granted it's only been a few months, but I have a very  positive feeling about it. It's interesting that last year the only thing that wasn't going well was my relationship, and now that's great but everything else has gone to crap. :-/ I've weathered some rough spots before (I actually took a year off between high school and college after a nasty personal crisis) so I have faith that this is not permanent and that things will improve. But if not, I told Popeye this morning that I'll go live with him in a cardboard box if necessary.

I know people say that it's important to gain confidence in yourself and find comfort in being alone, but life really is much better when you have someone special to share it with.