Jump On In, The Water's Fine

You know, I've been wanting to start this damn blog for at least five years. Maybe longer. When I was diagnosed with Bipolar Type 1 in 2002, I started drafting a book (don't most of us after our first trip to the nuthouse?), but as more episodes occurred and my medications got stronger, I found I couldn't write the book anymore. Now, blogging -- with the short posts -- is something I can do. Yet I have shied away from writing about my bipolar disorder, preferring to delve into other topics. Why? Frankly folks, I don't know. But here I am, putting some sentences together so I guess we are finally off to a quasi-good start.

Who am I? Well, honestly at this juncture I don't know. There was the Melissa before she got sick and diagnosed with bipolar disorder (manic-depressive illness) at age 36. And I, and many others, knew her very well. Energetic, enthusiastic, bright, articulate, inquisitive, intellectual, passionate, focused...no need to go on. I was working as a reporter and had just received an A.P. award. Newly married. Carefree? Perhaps.

And then the bottom fell out, and I'm in the loony bin shot up with Haldol, my husband's in tears, and Old Melissa is gone, to be replaced by...someone else. And she's scared and confused and doesn't know what "Bipolar Disorder Type 1 with Psychotic Features" means.

I think that word "psychotic" frightens me the most, even though I've never been violent or harmed anyone. Psychosis for me means, among other things, if mania is sparked, I will "wander" either on foot or by car, babbling out loud about religious or political things. I believe I can talk to world leaders, God, and my deceased father telepathically. I think my husband is a CIA agent. And I believe secret messages are sent out through hard rock radio stations.

For obvious reasons, I must be medicated with strong drugs immediately. I can be clever though, and fool my family into thinking all is fine and good. It all feels "real" to me -- but something that must be kept secret. When I have "flashbacks" about my manias, it physically hurts and makes me shiver. I hate the flashbacks. I am ashamed I behaved the way I did and feel like it's my fault. Indeed, I want to crawl into a cave and hide forever.

Since 2002, I have had four manic episodes, my last in May 2011. I've been to four different hospitals here in Columbus and they were terrible, frightening places. More about that later. I've been fired from jobs or I've left out of embarrassment. I live in constant fear I'll go manic again -- despite assurances from my doctor and therapist that it won't happen again. I go through periods where I want to conquer this illness and fight back, but have many times where I am dejected and long for the "Old Melissa."

My tale is probably not that different from others diagnosed with Bipolar Type 1. Without medication, I will "swing" from crushing depression to wild mania, with depression typically occurring in the Fall/Winter months and mania in the Spring/Early Summer months. It is not "I feel blue" depression. It is "I want to kill myself" depression, where you go over endlessly in your head the method you will use to dispose of yourself. I was bed-ridden, dirty, in physical pain.

And as for mania -- well, mine always have the psychosis attached. But the gist is you feel high and energized and like God's gift to mankind. That's called grandiosity. You also want to spend money. Lots and lots of it. Some get sexually promiscuous. Others, like me, feel the need to "educate" people with your wisdom, so letters to newspaper editors get sent. All of this seems fun at the time -- but when the mania is over, one often realizes how frightening it is. I feel acute, painful, crippling embarrassment.

But the good thing is as of right now, I have been "episode-free" for 2 1/2 years. And I finally started this blog today. Maybe it's the beginning of shedding my shame. Up goes this post. And onward we go...