How I Lost and Regained the Sparkle in My Eye

Upon my diagnosis of bipolar 2 at 21, I no longer knew who I was. Everything I had thought about myself shifted through the lens of insanity. For example, I viewed my excessive energy to work 40-50 hours, sing in a choir, perform a play, and attend young adult activities during summer breaks as mania, and moments of anger, irritability, and tears as depression. Were my creativity, brilliance, and spontaneity only a product of mania? Did that mean depression was my "normal"?

I navigated my new world unsure where to step after I came home a year early from a beloved service opportunity (due to severe bipolar symptoms). At my core, I felt unsure that I could function as a daughter, sister, or friend. After all, one sister moaned about how irritable or emotionless I acted.

Uncharacteristically, uncertainty sapped my spiritual, emotional, and physical energy to look for a job. Numbly, I applied for two or three jobs and waited. For an interview as an assistant librarian, I felt cautiously optimistic since I hadn't bombed the interview. A few days later, I accepted the job offer. I gradually opened my personality to my coworkers and family who earned my trust. Ironically, I worked more hours, 40-70 a week, than any previous summer after I accepted a second job.

When my former roommate offered to set me up with her brother at the end of April, I let myself express some impulsiveness by saying yes. Perhaps part of me was returning while starting new medications.

For the first time, a regular male, my roommate's brother, showed genuine interest in dating me. We held hands by the end of our first hours-long date! Until then, it had only been my futile crushes, so I didn't know how to traverse through this new relationship. I wondered if my attraction to him, or anyone else, only amounted to bipolar hypersexuality. Did I kiss my new boyfriend too long? Did I do fill-in-the-blank too much? Additionally, I felt shame when my mind wandered upon how handsome other men (or women) were.

After my marriage, I moved to Idaho where my new husband attended school. I had worked 40-70 hours at two jobs over the summer, so I could handle 30-40 hours in the fall, right? Because college students flooded the job market, I struggled to find a job nearby. Three weeks later, I found a job at a care facility several miles away with the possibility of 20-40 hours. Though I wanted to quit after the first day, I pushed through. After all, my husband and I needed money for food and rent. But my work atmosphere was crappy and only became crappier. Many coworkers and the manager engaged in religious discrimination, disability discrimination, and sexual harassment increasingly over two months. After an argument with the manager over a mistake I made, I abruptly quit--though it was inevitable from the first day.

I felt like such a failure and that it had been all my fault. My manager called me "slow" and treated me differently after I disclosed my bipolar diagnosis. I reported the sexual harassment and foul language to her, which she justified as "free speech". My manager only made token efforts to curb the discrimination and harassment afterward. Then she would turn around and make sexual jokes herself. Later I contacted the Idaho Human Rights Council, but the worker repeated that the foul language and harassment were "free speech". (Sadly, I didn't know to report to the EEOC at this point.)

All this gaslighting convinced me I was wrong to withstand workplace harassment and discrimination. At this point, I broke in so many ways and suicidality and feelings of worthlessness returned with a vengeance.

Six weeks later, my husband and I moved for a semester to Utah so I could attend my university. One professor who knew me for three years remarked that I wasn't as "spunky" anymore. I chalked up the difference to my bipolar medication keeping me stable--not being severely depressed. I kept reporting that I was fine to my psychiatrist, but I didn't know what "normal" to compare my moods to anymore. Mostly, I felt numb.

From March to June 2006, I spiraled to greater and greater self-harm until finally I almost passed out the final time of self-harm. Then my husband and I sought help from a religious charity for food, counseling, and a job. At my new job as a "trainee", I felt safe from harassment and discrimination. Slowly my trust in an employer returned while I carried my first son.

I had small ups and downs while bearing one boy, finishing my degree, and through my second pregnancy. Then we moved away for an internship eight weeks after I gave birth to my second boy. I fell into postpartum depression and mixed bipolar episodes. My moods vacillated for the next eighteen months as we moved multiple times. During all this time, I didn't have a regular therapist or psychiatrist due to frequent moves and insurance changes.

After nine months of living in our second home, I engaged in self-harm again and struggled with wanting to harm my children. This time I checked myself into the emergency room and psychiatric unit. For five days, I nearly went bonkers from all the rules, strict schedule, and lack of basic items like shower hooks and alarm clocks. Jokingly, I mused to myself how un-imaginary my self-harm had been. I never would have considered so many ordinary items as dangerous before. Mostly, I wanted a long nap.

Talking with other female patients, I realized how devastating years of sexual abuse could be. Those abusers had injured their minds and hearts, but those women were survivors getting the help they needed. I wanted to comfort them because they had severer symptoms. Comparing their pain to my pain hurt and helped me. I saw that I had many blessings of a kind family who visited while I was in the psychiatric unit. Yet, I minimized my burdens as less important to address.

After I returned home, my sister commented on how I, the "princess", shined in that dreary place. I felt confused when she shared that the "sparkle" had returned to my eyes. Slowly puzzle pieces fell into place, such as a professor saying I'd lost my "spunk". The sparkle must be my spontaneity and confidence that had returned.

Reflecting back, that crappy job had removed that sparkle. Despite new medication and the return of the "sparkle", I hesitated to care for my two boys again. I feared that I would hurt them or hurt myself from the burden of childcare. Eight hours alone with a toddler and preschooler while my husband worked? I just couldn't do it. To ease the transition, I visited my boys at my parents' and sister's shared home several times before bringing them home for a weekend. My husband mostly watched them. Three weeks later, my boys returned home.

On new medicine and with regular counseling, I slowly regained trust in myself. I gradually returned to caring for my two boys full-time and napped when my husband returned home for lunch. After bearing my third son, I started writing again. I even started freelance writing on Upwork.

Finally, I felt settled. I separated my regular self from my "bipolar moments". Being sad, mad, and happy weren't symptoms, but normal human experiences. For the past ten years, I experienced ups and downs, but I understand how to reach for help now. After my son's near-fatal accident in 2019, stressful situations have triggered self-harm episodes again. But I have survived the PTSD through counseling, prayer, writing, and family intervention.

Now I work on keeping that sparkle daily through physical, social, spiritual, and emotional self-care. I know it's still there because my creativity and spontaneity remain largely intact.

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