The nurse feeds me my evening cup of “Skittles,” brightly-colored psychiatric medications, while down the hall waft sounds of a small group of patients singing Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” It will be Lights Out in 12 minutes. I will lie in my six-inch foam mattress bed with thoughts of ending myself racing through my slowly-sedating brain. The eerie light of the hallway won’t allow the darkness to envelope me in sleep. Nor will the shadows be chased away enough to feel safe.
“Deborah, I have meds for you!” It’s the next memory I have. The nurse calls cheerfully as she wheels the cart next to my bed for my morning “Skittles,” more brightly-colored psychiatric medications. Dutifully I swallow and offer a prayer to the bipolar gods that I’ll feel sane and confident this day. And discharge from the hospital may be only a day away instead of weeks. Slowly it dawns on me that my first waking thoughts were of offing myself instead of the usual joy I would feel that it is my birthday. My prayer now feels like a distant hope I’ll never realize.
That was the first night of my umpteenth or twenty-somethingth psychiatric hospitalization in the four years since I was diagnosed with Type I Bipolar Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder and a bonus of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder because my suicidal thoughts take on obsessive tendencies. And I’m Bipolar Type I because I’ve had at least one psychotic break – two that I remember from years – eons it feels – before diagnosis, but happenings just the same, perfect emblems that Bipolar has followed me my entire adult life, and not only the last four years since diagnosis.
This is the story of being Suddenly Bipolar and of the slow coming to terms with what Bipolar and Anxiety now mean for my future and how they made sense of my past.
Come with me and explore a sudden diagnosis and its slower cousin, Acceptance. Join me on a journey toward an ever-cycling life of moods, schedules, routines, and the intense beauty of a support system that held faith for me.