Just Keep Swimming

Corny as it may sound, things began when I wanted them to end.

I was neck-deep in a depression like none I had felt before, which is saying something because I’ve been well aquatinted with depression since my early adolescence, about 14.

Now, at 32, I can confidently say that I’m a depression expert.

In 2019 I was closer to un-aliving myself than I ever had been before. I asked my partner if he preferred finding me, or that I just disappear one day. My unwell mind thought I was being considerate of his feelings by giving him a choice.

Luckily for me, that’s when I finally got the help I needed. I told my doctor that if they didn’t change the prescription they had me on, I wouldn’t be around for our next appointment. I also demanded a psychiatrist, because my GP was not equipped to handle my situation.

Demanding a referral for a psychiatrist was the best thing I could have done for myself. It was then that I started to rebuild. In Canada, you can’t just make an appointment with a psychiatrist, you must be referred.

One thing they don’t tell you after you have a mental breakdown is that when you begin the healing process, you realize how out of touch you were with yourself. For me, it felt like there was someone else in control of my body. Now that I have a clearer mind, I’m able to see that someone else was inside of my body. I like to refer to her as my Dark Passenger.

The psychiatrist was able to tell me why I was a professional at being depressed. It’s because I’m bipolar and being depressed is half the game. Then I started to think of all the times I wasn’t depressed, when I was overly productive, much quicker to take risks and felt somewhat invincible. I didn’t feel that way because I was elated about being able to get out of bed and feed myself, I felt that way because I was manic.

Now that I knew what mania was, a lot of things in my life began making sense. So many decisions, all the mistakes, the close calls… I’m not saying that was all because of mania or hypomania, but I’m not, not saying it was.

The next step after being properly diagnosed was to get on the right medication. My GP had me on SSRI’s which, unbeknownst to me, was like throwing gasoline on the dumpster fire that was my bipolar disorder.

Apparently, taking SSRI’s when you are bipolar helps boost you to either a depressive episode or a manic one. It’s kind of like picking up the chance card in Monopoly that tells you to fast track to Go, except instead of collecting $200, you collect a crippling inability to care for yourself, OR the astounding ability to achieve far more than you should with the asterix that none of what you’re doing is sustainable or healthy for you.

What bipolar brains need is dopamine, and once my brain got that, things started looking up. Wellbutrin, Lithium, and Seroquel are now the gatekeepers of my mental health and I’m good with that. I’ve seen both the positive and negatives of taking medication to aid in mental health support. It can either be the worst or the best thing that happens to you. I’m so grateful I’m finally experiencing the latter.

At first, I didn’t think the meds were doing much. I was taking Wellbutrin which helped a lot with increasing my will to live, but other than that I still felt quite lost. Now that I had a diagnosis, I felt this strange in-between feeling. On the one hand, I was thrilled to be treating the correct thing. On the other hand, the correct thing was a serious disorder that I had to make peace with having. Knowing that if I had had this diagnosis earlier in life, things likely would have been completely different. Is there a word for feeling complete elation while simultaneously deeply mourning? That’s essentially what this period felt like.

After taking my medication for a few months, I began to feel like I was inside of my body again and not just my head. My inner critic was much quieter, my paranoia had subsided, and my overall feeling of guilt and shame began melting away.

Trust me, I was someone who originally never wanted to take medication. I was worried that they would sedate me in a way that changed my candor, my liveliness, or for lack of a better word, my vibe. I was worried that they would change me in a way I did not consent to. So, because of these fears, suffered far longer than I needed to and certainly longer than I deserved to.

The journey to get here was a treacherous one, one I almost didn’t make a few times. It’s not the medication that did this for me, all the medication did was correct the chemical deficit, the rest was up to me.

Having that chemical deficit resolved made my healing process easier, and quite honestly, possible. Without it, I wouldn’t have had the mental bandwidth or strength to heal my traumas and challenge myself to reach higher.

All of this to say,

If you’re someone who’s struggling, do not give up. You are so much more than your illness and you are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for. You owe it to yourself to get the help you need because meeting yourself on the other side feels like meeting a new friend, one that you’re excited to get to know and don't know what you did without.

You are worthy of feeling your best. You are worthy of smiling brighter than everyone around you. You are worthy of loving yourself.

Don’t give up, I’m rooting for you.