A year ago, I published about the day I actually became suicidal, as well as the subsequent months after I texted the personal assistant and got help. I’ve been coping with a bipolar analysis and medicated intended for fifteen months at this point. Six months ago, I began taking medication to treat anxiety.
I’ve seen our weight balloon 50 lbs. My sex drive has turned into associated with a sex razor blade scooter ride. You could accredit a lot of that to the pandemic. Like most people, I’ve been trapped in my house for the past year, severely limiting my physical exercise, social interactions, and thousands of steps dropped from day-to-day normalcy.
I miss everything. I skip the smell associated with breakfast wafting more than midtown every early morning. I miss squeezing in a coffee catch-up with friends in the middle of a hectic day. I miss eliminating time somewhere prior to the next thing. Hell, I actually even miss hearing “it’s showtime” on the crowded subway.
Those little nuggets of daily connections have been replaced using the amplifying of all the defects of my living space – construction outdoors my building, a good upstairs neighbor working their 3-11 changes from home, taking calls all night, with their tone of voice thundering over my girlfriend and I, as we attempt to The Sopranos in serenity. Every time I hear music outside my window, I feel shivers down my backbone, I feel my cardiovascular start racing, the particular anxiety snake slithering up my lower-leg.
If I’d been doing our normal hustle – auditions, classes, writing partner meet-ups, rehearsals, teaching classes, bartending, and catering every fucking night to make ends meet… Really dont know if any of this would rent room in my brain. It is as though I have many of these co-workers that I can not stand in my residence, girlfriend excluded, who are also just simply existing in this brand new normal.
It is truly difficult to assess whether or not my 100mg of Lamictal plus 10mg of Lexapro have taken effect. So , here I am, composing it down. Possess I been taking once life since September 30th, 2019, the day I called the lifeline and got help? No . Thank God. Possess I spent times unable to do just a lie in bed, and, maybe muster the particular motivation to stagger over to the couch? Too many to depend.
Have I had panic attacks because my superintendent had his family in the courtyard area, while actively playing music at a good volume, thinking that “they were going to become down there forever and exactly what if in 3 years my girlfriend and am have a baby and it’s trying to rest and these motherfuckers are usually down there playing music and what the fuck isn’t he supposed to make us really feel safe how can he do this to us…? ” I think the answer is obviously indeed.
In the “real” world (I place that in quotations because, well, precisely what is the “real” entire world now? ), these types of pockets of frustration, anxiety, and despression symptoms would likely be brought on by things like the belligerent guest at a party I’m bartending, a threatening personality on the subway, and, I don’t know… lifestyle?
I got medicated in November of 2019. It generally takes four to six days for mood stabilizers to take full impact. I lived on my meds in the earlier world for about two months before the pandemic. I truly wish I had more time with it, because I had been truly beginning to see the particular progress. I’m thankful for the timing, because the challenges of this past year may very-well have been unsustainable without the aid of my meds.
When I was 28, I was experiencing severe disposition swings at work. Working as a doorman in a busy hotel within midtown Manhattan, I put a major inferiority complex and thirst intended for confrontation. I was suggested by an union therapist to see a psychiatrist because of my family history of bipolar support groups, depression, and addiction. The first doctor I could see threw a bi-polar diagnosis at me while barely looking up from his computer. “Family history” was all he necessary to hear.
The things i needed to hear was “no, you’re just in the wrong job”, so I sought an additional opinion. I proceeded to go in with my answers slightly modified, less branches of the household tree linking myself to my illness. The physician grilled me for your number of alcoholic beverages I had per day, but unfortunately, did not believe I was bipolar. He delivered me on my merry way, with the absolutely loaded canon of unchecked problems.
What I thought at twenty-eight: I’m a writer. How could I possibly start taking medicine? That will stifle all the wonderful things that stream through my convenience when I spend through the night in front of my personal computer, perseverating while composing a story about how our anger and unpredictability got me straight into yet another fight at work. I’m an acting professional. I need to be able to make use of my emotions. They are my bread plus butter. I cannot risk numbing them.
What I discovered at 35: Medication does not block me as being a writer or professional. In fact , after writing or acting in the scene about some thing triggering, I’m in a position to tap out plus remove myself once it’s over. I can still cry, remember feelings and sensations, put myself in a place I want. The training and experience never went anywhere. What left were the unsafe strategies in which I would use to produce these emotions. The constant self-punishment which was sometimes impossible to discern myself through before I got medicated.
What I thought at 28: Dont really want meds to show me into a living dead, an emotionless drone who floats by means of life not feeling anything. I must feel things.
What I learned at 35: Sorry, however, you still feel each goddamn thing that will passes through you. In fact , you feel them even more now. Why? Because it’s just about all slowed down. Years of psychotherapy, journaling, and now medication have given me the tools to realize these types of feelings as they happen. They allow me to witness it, instead of letting it consume me.
What I thought at 28: A zweipolig diagnosis goes on my permanent record, and I’ll never get another job.
What I learned at 35: What long term record?
What I thought in 28: Bipolar people within movies go off their meds and burn everything to the floor, that’s not myself!
What I learned at thirty-five: Alright, lots to unpack here. First of all, yes, there are people out there which stop taking their own medication and work destructively. I’ve noticed it firsthand with people I love. It’s frightening. I can’t talk as a medical professional, but I can speak being an artist:
The particular portrayal of people with bipolar disorder in movie and television can be perpetually problematic. It is far too often that a character struggling with a mental illness serves as the albatross to maneuver the plot forward, and far too usually their “going off their meds” is usually something that heightens the particular stakes.
Terrible, Netflix dropped a documentary this year called Crime Scene: The particular Vanishing at the Cecil Hotel, which spends 3 hours building up several faux ghost tale, perpetrated by a bunch of idiot YouTubers, simply to exploit a dead young woman’s bipolar support groups – making sure to check on every stigmatizing stereotype box along the way. There is an overwhelming amount of conspiracy theory theories and backstory on the hotel’s sordid past, with numerous people providing comments about murders plus alleged hauntings that this property endured over the years, only for the “gotcha” moment to be that she experienced a good episode after going off her medication… which resulted in the girl drowning in a drinking water tank.
So long as the entertainment sector treats mental sickness like Chekov’s weapon, people who live with it will be hard-pressed to feel at ease speaking openly about this.
I don’t have the ability to the answers. Never will. I give up my job on the whim to pursue a career as an designer in 2016 and racked up nearly $20, 000 in credit card debt in the process. Had been it a vibrant move that paid off? Yes. Was this a sneaky kind of mania? I think so , looking back onto it. Since I started taking my medication, I could count on one hand the number of times I utilized my credit card meant for something unnecessary, while paying off thousands of dollars really worth of debt. (Wait…Should I have prefaced that with “I’m not an accountant”? )
In the end, I’ve devoted to this life – making peace along with my diagnosis while doing what is in my power to treat it – not skipping doses of my medicine, speaking regularly to some therapist, journaling every single day, and talking openly about it… plus, you know, diet and exercise stuff.
So far, so great.
The post Why I Ignored a Bipolar Diagnosis in my 20’s… and What I Learned in my 30’s appeared first on Probability Change.