The Big One
mental health. that fucker.
authors note* this is a story I wrote in the summer of 2019, during one of the darkest, most subterranean seasons of my life. I look back on it almost two years later and realize it’s still true; it still happened and while parts of it feel melodramatic from this angle, they were very much real and I lived and felt each of these words and each of these emotions viscerally. And I’m very scared to share it here.
The sad thing is, any time I share parts of my “trauma story,” with my people (women, specifically), almost everyone has a story to match, to relate and to share. It hurts my heart to know how many of us have spent moments sobbing on the floor. Or others of us have shoved trauma deep down and felt it cram its ugly head into other, softer parts of our lives, and we can’t do anything to stop it. Stories of abandonment, emotional manipulation, or even of rape and physical abuse. And we, we just have to hold them. Because if we’re to share them anywhere else, it comes off as angry victimized women being angry victims. Which, candidly, I’ve made that judgment of others too. But each of us are so insanely much more than that.
So I share this for all of us and also for me. Our past selves, our future selves, our angry selves, our scared selves, our confused selves and our whole selves. We can all seek the day when we can look with more perspective and feel that it gets better, because it does.
--
I used to say jokingly that I could never become a writer, because if I did I’d go crazy and kill myself. At that time, suicide was a far-off concept, in some ways unimaginable that someone would actually want to forsake this beautiful gift of life they’d been given. Those are the crazy people, I thought.
--
“I can’t wait to marry you,” he said. “Nothing you could ever do would push me away. You’re the love of my life. I’m just dreaming of a life with you. I know you’re going through something and I’m here to walk with you through it.” “I feel replaceable,” I argued, “I’m just one in a lineup of women in your life. It’s going to get hard and you’re going to leave me.” He assured me that couldn’t possibly come true, that no matter what he’d be there, that he’d never felt this way about anyone else and didn’t realize what love meant until he met me. Yet as we went on, I had the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right, that I couldn’t quite trust what he was saying was true. I looked back at his long line of ex-girlfriends and focused my energies on questioning his past with them. I wondered how many people he’d said these things to.
In our year of dating rather seriously and purposefully - a mutual and self-imposed sprint toward the finish line (starting line) of marriage - we endured an impossible hand that had been dealt to us: he was in an extremely stressful and time-intensive job while also pursuing his MBA after hours. I was watching my sister’s marriage disintegrate and had convinced myself that she and he would be together if she weren’t married (they were coworkers and good friends before she introduced us). My dog of 12 years had cancer and was dying. Work had become boring, unchallenging and undistracting. Both contributing our own broad circles of community, we were compelled to honor an exorbitant amount of friend, family and travel commitments. These factors, coupled with my delightful and newfound bouts of panic attacks made for a nice little Molotov cocktail of emotions and hardship that characterized our year. The anxiety and depression began and systematically ripped through my life, and I was convinced it was all my fault. Surely I was the cause and the one doing something wrong; I and everyone else thought he was essentially a perfect boyfriend. I tried everything I could to make myself better: read every book I could find, meditated, went to therapy, sought counsel from friends & family, clung to church, took antidepressants: a veritable recipe for self-help. But nothing worked. Soon, anxiety and panic attacks punctuated every aspect of my life and our relationship.
My mental health had reached an alarming level of brittleness; I would get anxious before every social engagement, worried what I’d say and begging myself not to bring up any fighting topics after a few drinks. Many times I sat on the floor sobbing and frozen, yelling at him “why won’t you just break up with me” and over and over again he assured me he’d stay, come what may. I questioned if I could trust him and if he really was a good man, questions I brought forward often. After a series of deceptions and omissions came to light, trust was completely destroyed, and I couldn’t seem to let the missteps go and move forward. I despaired and went down down down deeper into a sense of listlessness that weighed heavy on both of us, but still I found myself madly in love, working as hard as I could to be better and avoiding at all costs the worse fate of having him not in my life at all.
I felt alone in the trying, like I was the only one really making sacrifices and working to try to make things better. I think he saw the long conversations concerning our emotions as his due diligence in the relationship, the requisite amount of work that proved he was making an effort. Often I told him I was at my limit with time, stress and money. Even though he swore I was his number one priority, there was always one more thing added to the calendar - another business venture, another trip, another tattoo, another hobby, another contest - all on top of work, workouts, school and me. To me it became increasingly clear that his actions told me I was not a priority at all. I felt I was no longer the shiny object he’d seen at the beginning, and began to see myself moreso as a deeply troubled and broken girl who was more work than she was worth, never good enough and certainly not worth fighting for.
Despite all this, we continued on, still deeply in love with each other and trying to make it work. Of course there was so much good in the relationship: many moments filled with the indescribable joy of simply loving the other. Incredible trips abroad, many healthy expressions of love and service, sacrifices made in time and money, heartwarming memories of laughter and play. There’d have to be, otherwise the pain wouldn’t have been so great. These moments of good were punctuated by anxiety attacks, long and extreme fights, drunken rages, manic episodes and my suicidal thoughts, all he often dismissed as attention-seeking. All the makings of a passionate, perhaps toxic, love affair but nonetheless something I deemed worth fighting for.
In the spring, we were on the up and up. We were both actively working to lighten our schedules. My dog had passed away, heart wrenching but bittersweet as the stress of caretaking had finally concluded. We enjoyed a blissful weekend, spending time with his family at a lovely wedding. Things had started to calm down a bit and we had talked about engagement only a few weeks before. Everything was finally starting to get better.
The following weekend we flew to another city for his friend’s birthday. Inspired by a few triggers, the fights, tears and how do I know I can trust yous joined us on the trip, culminating in a very public conversation (argument) in front of an audience of his friends. He got frustrated and angrily stormed off, understandably eager to rejoin the party instead of defending his character to no avail.
Because I didn’t know his friends as well and felt very much alone, I went to the bar and quickly downed three G&Ts within the hour, hoping he’d come find me. He didn’t; I had embarrassed him by fighting publicly in front of his friends, the people whose opinions he ultimately cared about most. In his eyes, me making him look bad was an unforgivable crime and a death sentence to our relationship.
Eventually I drunkenly floundered back to the hotel room where I stumbled to the bathroom and vomited, though I hadn’t eaten much that day. Eventually he came up to find me and explained with terrifying calmness that it wasn’t working and we were over. He said he had looked ahead at his life and realized he didn’t want to deal with me ruining important events. I was still drunk, in shock and had been alone most of the day. I stood in front of the door blocking his exit, screaming that he couldn’t leave me. It was after all, the thing he’d assured me of most during our relationship, and I’d come to believe it, however delusionally. He had become my partner and my family, and I thought that sometimes couples have to pull each other back from the brink. Most of all though, I wasn’t sure I could survive it.
He finally got past me out the door, called me a psycho and left. I didn’t sleep that night and despite paragraphs of apology texts and pleading for a second chance, didn’t hear from him until the next morning at 7a: “I’m at the airport. This is what’s best for us.” Our original flight home was scheduled for 7p. I was left alone in a hotel in another city to deal with my crumbling mental health. He had snapped, essentially became another person, an emotionless robot who wanted nothing to do with me. The next text I received was the next day: “I canceled our dinner plans, let me know how you want me to get your stuff back to you.” It was nothing short of trauma and challenged every good regard I’d had for myself. I had been bad enough, caustic enough, to push away the person I loved more than anything and truly believed was the love of my life. The only remnants of our supposedly lifelong relationship were two people I no longer recognized.
Days passed. I didn’t eat or sleep and soldiered on with what I’m sure was an unconvincing and pained performance of a normal person, while completing the wine-fueled circuit of telling friends what had happened and accepting support and sympathy. From everyone came the assurance that the hardest part was over, I was better off without him and that the days would only get better. But they didn’t. Three months, 20 books and countless tearful nights later, I felt the same.. worse.
I think what I reacted to was the worthlessness and rejection I felt by being discarded so quickly and easily. A snap in his disposition, soon followed by apathy (a defense mechanism but nonetheless brutal) and a swift replacement by another blonde; a new picture posted and the memories and photos of our year together slashed from his profile like they had never happened. The questions of “was I meaningful at all?” and “am I worthy of any sort of love?” swarmed into my mind’s field of vision with an unceasing and unpredictable vigor.
The most troubling part of all of this was the assault on my faith. I had clung to God throughout this hard season and thought He had wanted me to stay in this relationship, that He would work for the good in all this. Then it splintered in the most violently abrupt way, leaving me questioning not only my worth but how I heard and interpreted the voice of God. “What the fuck do you want from me?!” I’d scream at the top of my lungs to the roof of my car.
On the subjects of religion, relationships and self-development, I read everything I could get my hands on to combat my misgivings and keep my mind on anything but the depth of my emotion. Donald Miller, Brene Brown, CS Lewis and the authors of the Bible became my best friends, joining the ranks of my close confidants, new therapist, mentors and family members that comprised an exceptional support system. And yet, it wasn’t enough. Thoughts of suicide and self-doubt just wouldn’t leave me alone.
They started as a soft whisper: what if? before snowballing (and erupting, and spiraling) into a much-urgent yelling from my brain: THIS IS TOO HARD. YOU ARE WORTHLESS. YOU ARE TOO MUCH FOR THE WORLD ANYMORE. I guess I never thought I’d go through with it, which is why I didn’t seek serious help, worry or think my family should. But then again, my thoughts moved quickly and seamlessly into the depths, so sometimes I think I did truly scare myself.
Exacerbated by the swift transition he made to a new relationship, no doubt sharing the same propaganda of a quick tumble into love that feels so flattering and special (but in hindsight I think could be desperation of someone looking to fill the gaps in life without maturity and the hard work of commitment), I slipped further into depression and alcohol to numb. The night I saw a confirming and dooming picture on Instagram (half a bottle of wine in tow), I tumbled into melancholic mania, took a swift knife stroke to my left wrist (not too too deep, more self-harm than attempt) and called my mom to sob that I couldn’t do this anymore. My sister collected me and finally convinced me to let her take me to the ER. The male nurse looked and talked like James Franco, though his actual name was Jason. Even though Nurse Franco was great, they really didn’t do much except take my vitals and discharge me at 3am, an altogether disheartening and unhelpful experience in the face of crisis.
Days later, at the urging of my family and begrudging nature of my ego, I found myself on a leave of absence from work, enrolled in a three-week partial hospitalization program. My dad had flown out from Ohio; my family had me on suicide watch and I couldn’t be alone. He drove me to the hospital. I screamed and cried in the car, begging him to let me “leave,” that this was too hard. Leave, of course was my euphemism for something much deeper and darker. “Can’t do it; we love you too much,” he replied softly.
After more tears, screams, protesting and my father’s words of encouragement, I slowly ambled in and sat through a day of mental health lessons, group therapy, psychiatric conversations and art time. To lighten the mood, I coined it “Emotion Camp.”
The next day, sitting in a meeting with my assigned therapist, she pointed at the sheet of paper where a word was scribbled in the box labeled diagnosis. “The doctor talked to you about this right?” she asked. The word was bipolar. No, the doctor hadn’t talked to me about it. My tears came quickly and unexpectedly as she explained what it meant, bit by bit giving me increasing clarity. Over time, I eventually learned that bipolar disorder is the vacillation between periods of depression and mania, often triggered by traumatic events, stress and alcohol, all of which I’d had plenty in the past year. It’s caused by genetics and a mixup in brain chemistry, and when referenced appropriately, it means your brain is “sick” just as your body might be sick with a fever. I learned the thoughts and symptoms are not something you can just “positive mindset” away or snap out of. Finally a semblance of an explanation, though a scary one.
So. I am bipolar. Ahem, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, type 2. The B-list, less pervasive and intense version of the Bipolar 1 disorder which movies and literature often portray. For that I was grateful. NOT full-blown mania, thank God. The prolonged depression that typifies type 2 sucks ass though. One of the many lovely symptoms? Suicidal tendencies.
In the days and weeks that followed, I charted a course of some upward swings brought screechingly back down to earth by relapses and panic-stricken episodes. I continued to pick my way through the psychiatric & mental health lessons of the program and my work with my therapist and my family, tied nicely together with the new addition of several medications.
In some ways I’m grateful. I wouldn’t have a diagnosis and meds and an explanation without the trauma. Some days I absolutely understand how it got to be too hard for him to endure. Other days, I’m enraged, bitter and resentful that someone could make promises without the wherewithal to know how to keep them, and I question if I was ever really loved in the way he claimed. This will take a very long time to disentangle, and I often find myself wishing I had never met him or could recruit the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind memory-wiping services. But through it all, I hope. And realize hard is part of life and this will somehow prove to be a vital part of my story. And I’m working to forgive and love, over and over again.
I had many nights where I went to bed praying that I wouldn’t wake up. Despite it all, I think I also have a yet-to-be-discovered, unique and powerful plan for my life; countless friends and family members praying for and thinking of me and at times, the smallest little seeds of hope. That it’ll get better, that someday this will be a won war and a distant memory.
I’m not writing this to defame and incriminate, but to tell my story and release it. To defend myself and remind myself that I’m ok and worth it, and it wasn’t all my fault. To destigmatize mental health complications in some small way, to look stigma in the face, walk up to it and say hello. Being called crazy or psycho is something that cuts to the heart, and certainly lashed into mine. But these are now terms I accept and try to celebrate, or at the very least smile at. A succinct and comical description of the simple fact that I was born with a mashed brain chemistry. My grandmother and genetic pool lovingly bestowed on me a gift of a brain unlike any other, all at once searing with creativity and compassion, hyper emotion and histrionics.
While writing is something that makes me feel naked and pushes me to an utterly frustrated and procrastinative state in my life, I never dreamed that, ironically, it could also be the thing that saves it. Without an outlet the words would continue to tumble around in my brain, waging war and masquerading as truth, all the while dragging me further down. My hope is that somehow, by setting these thoughts free from my brain I can set myself free too. To be vulnerable, shine my iPhone flashlight on the dark and ugly parts and offer camaraderie to anyone else out there who may be experiencing something similar.
Lastly - of course, there are many sides to every story. This is just mine, the one I lived and the one I hold. As I write, I draw from the words of Robert Lowell, relayed to me by way of Kay Redfield Jamison, “yet why not say what happened?”
