I lost my mother when I was 8 months pregnant. She was struggling with mental illness her entire life. I fought for her but she lost the battle. Only after her death did I find that I also had the same illness she lived with, bipolar disorder. I took action. I sought help. I didn’t want her death to be meaningless, misunderstood, and I surely didn’t want my son I suffer like I did growing up. I started talk therapy, then saw a psychiatrist, was properly diagnosed and medicated. I was hesitant to try the meds but reminded myself that it was worth a shot, my son was worth it. I’m glad I did because I have been in control of my life again and capable of maintaining things I was once unable to do. There is pride in seeking help. Pride in knowing yourself and knowing how much strength it takes to face your problems head on. You are NOT alone.

It was Easter morning in 1987 when I found myself sitting alone on the floor of a bus station in New York City. I had no money, no home, no job, no food, no friends, no family and no God. I was crashing after a night binging on street drugs. I had moved to NYC after an un-diagnosed manic episode caused me to drop out of pre-med, honor studies at Loyola Marymount University of three years. I went against the pleas of my family and friends to just change majors or take a break from college. I had been using alcohol, cigarettes, drugs and food to self-medicate since I was 12 and exhibited a duality of personas. On the one hand, I was the Golden Boy. Everything I touched turned to gold. I was well liked by my mentors, teachers, priests and community leaders. I was an Eagle Scout, attended Boy’s State, was three year Varsity Letterman in swimming and diving, graduated 15th in a class of 560 students, held down two jobs, was A.S.B. Treasurer, received thousands of dollars in scholarships and was dating a beautiful young woman. However, I was seen as hedonistic, selfish and addicted by my classmates and peers. New York was the result of a life spiraling out of control for no apparent reason. Finally, after living in New York for 2 years, I was at my wits end, terrified, silent, confused and catatonic, my  roommates had me hospitalized in Elmhurst, Queens and I was diagnosed as Bi-Polar. I returned to California beaten and barely alive.

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I care deeply about the wellness of people’s lives and how the act of simply talking and truly caring about someone can potentially save other’s lives.

My first real art lesson was when my father taught me how draw a rose using basic shapes and shading. I don’t exactly remember my dad when I was little except that he was a really jolly fellow and as round as Santa. But today I’m really glad that I got my creativity and corny humor from him. My father had always prompted me to be creative and that was one of the greatest gifts he had left me with.

When I was in 6^th grade and only 11 years old he passed away all too suddenly. I had arrive at the hospital the day he died from kidney problems and there were no last “I love yous” or “I’m proud of you.” I wanted to be strong, I wanted straight A’s and I wanted to do it all for my dad. This was my way of thinking that temporarily helped me to survive my 3 years in middle school. But the years of denial and the bottling in of my emotions caught up to me and strangled my health. I needed help but I wasn’t conditioned to ask for anything. In my graduating year in 8^th  grade I wasn’t only struggling with delayed grieving of my father but I was also having extreme difficulty making speeches as the student body president and preparing for the 8th grade oral presentation all at once.

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I am currently 24 years old. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of 17 after a manic episode that had me up for 3 days with burst of energy and anxiety. It was strange, it was exciting, but most of all it was scary for myself and family. After staying in a inpatient facility for a few weeks and having my 18th birthday in the hospital. I felt the love, compassion, and selflessness of the workers there. I felt so lost in my own mind yet also comforted that I was somewhere that provided me with hope that things were going to be okay.The people there and caregivers gave the strength to forgive myself for the stress I had put on my loved ones. I look back after 7 years and think about what would have happened without the help of mental health professionals, medicine, and the compassion of the hospital community. This is why organizations like Nami are so important. The stigma of mental illness needs to go away, We are not alone and our community can only grow stronger. I want to help others who were scared like me talk to family members who may not understand and share my story. I continue to fight the stigma, ignorance, and the illness everyday and I know the NAMI community is right there with me. You are not alone

I’ve seen some stuff. I’ve been hit by a 40mph truck and broke 6 bones and cracked my skull, hear things inside and outside of me every minute, every day. I see scary things and people that aren’t there. I have nightmares and stop breathing and cant move while I sleep. I’ve been addicted to weed, meth, coke, heroin, spice, pills, and alcohol… I’ve done 2 years in prison isolated from everyone else because I’m mentally ill… Some days I’ll laugh for an hour straight and a few hours later be very depressed… I’ve tried to kill myself 6 or 7 times. This was all in the last 10 years. I am also a smart individual and excel in whatever I do quickly.  I am often insightful, understanding, and participate in meaningful activities.

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My story of mental illness begins when I was about 12 years old but I always knew I was different than the other kids that I knew it started when I was molested at age 11 by my friend s father and I went into a depression I started to pull out my hair which is called trichotillomania then things got worst I started to self harm like cutting my wrist things got worst I started to become violent with my family members my behaviors got so bad that I had to go out of state to a treatment center called cinnamon hills youth crisis center I was the for about 11 months I hated it I faked to make it just to get our of that place I then went to a step down place called rancho damacitas in Temecula ca I was there for a little bit I went home but things weren’t better they were the same my behaviors stayed the same I became suicidal I went back to Utah in a different place called copper hills I was there for about a year I aged out then went home things were still the same I didn’t get any better I was still suicidal I was at home I was in and out of placement then I was put into a state hospital metropolitan state hospital I was there for awhile once I went home from there things started to get better I started changing my behaviors I started taking better care of myself I was borderline personality disorder and depression anxiety trichotillomania today I am 24 I live at home I have not harmed myself in about a year and I half I go to support groups therapy and I have taken classes to be a mentor to teach peer to peer classes which I love I and a facilitator to be a nami connections I am loving life and I can’t wait to help others with there journey through recovery because recovery is worth it

My name is Andrea. I am learning to live a better life. I have been involved with my local NAMI office for about the past 8 months and it has been a wonderful experience for me. I just finished a NAMI  Peer-to-Peer class in May. I got a certificate of Achievement  that I completed the education course. That meant so much to me. I have good people in my life.  I am feeling much better than I was earlier this year. I have bp2 and I have my up and down days but I now am learning new coping skills to deal with my bp 2. I have had bp2 for many years. I have made friends from my Peer-to-Peer group and I am very thankful  for that. I have also been clean and sober for 12 years. I know I am a fighter and I have been through so much. I have to keep going and continue to fight and be there for other people as well.  I am leaning to accept that I am ok just the way I am.   

Do not look at my mental illnesses as a disease that is to be feared, and never listen to my real feelings. This is folly. This is foolishness of heart. No medication will replace what listening to the issue from those who live with so called mental illnesses.

And I knew I wasn’t right 

So I planned on going that Friday night 

And I knew I wasn’t okay

Making it the perfect place for me to stay 

See, for most, a mental hospital isn’t a choice 

It’s one of those things where you are left without a voice 

Brought there suddenly against your will

Then before you know it, you are given a bunch of random pills 

But for me, it was where I was supposed to be

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