As it sit here typing at the age of 36, I cannot fathom that I have had this illness for 10 years. Prior to being diagnosed with Bipolar, type 1, the words “ mental illness” were never really a part of my repertoire. I did have a mother who was deeply depressed, and two second cousins who died via suicide, but most of this was never openly discussed-especially my dad’s sister who killed herself at the age of 23, and my dad’s cousin, who shot himself in the head when he was 15. My family was a prominent name in the community, and there were never pictures or any conversations about either of these two individuals. My mom was diagnosed with MS in her early 40s, thus the depression. That was my experience with any kind of mental illness.
I was living a great life. I obtained my BA in 2001, and went on for my Masters in Nursing in 2004. Graduated in 2005 and took a job in the ICU when I was 25. What I will say is this: What I did not ask for on my 27th birthday was to be diagnosed with bipolar disorder and to be hospitalized for 4+ weeks following. I will never remember all of the details associated with my first hospitalization in the psychiatric unit, but what I will remember- unfortunately- were the traumatic moments during that time.
Just like the A & E show, “ Intervention,” there was such a meeting in my living room the night before I agreed to see the “ psychiatrist on call.” As I was working at a large hospital in the same city I lived in, I only agreed to be seen in and ER in the next closest town. Before this dramatic meeting at my home, I had not slept for 60+ hours, straight, I was spending money frivolously, I was talking nonstop, I was not taking care of myself, and I thought I was on top of the world. I had no clue that something was wrong. It took the perspective of people who cared about me to notice that something was definitely wrong. A very good friend of mine called me during that manic time and said, “ Molly, I looked up your symptoms online…… And, I think you have bipolar disorder.” I immediately told my friend that she knew nothing about healthcare, and I was the nurse, and probably told her off too.
After, what felt like coercion, agreeing to be seen by an MD, I rode with my brother to the hospital. I mostly chose this chauffeur, because I could smoke in his car. The ER visit was comical for me, and I was the star of the show- busy making everyone laugh. Soon thereafter, I was whisked away to the pysch unit, by two young girls. No one told me where I was headed, they just escorted me like I was a VIP. As stated before, I do not remember most of my initial hospitalization, but I distinctly remember being locked up and I remember driving the nurses crazy. I have since requested copies of my stay, MD records as well as nurses notes, and can see now that for the first two weeks I was there I was still only sleeping 1-3 hours, a night. My most disheartening memory from those 4 weeks was when I had to ride back to my hometown, to be committed at the local courthouse. Prior to riding in the back of an armored, steel, police van, I was shackled at the wrists, attached to a heavy chain around my waist and my ankles were shackled together as well, same style as my wrists. Why? No good reason. Most likely because I was an inpatient on a pscyh unit, and therefore-by association- deemed to be violent. When I arrived at the courthouse, my father and brother wee present. My mother was told that it best for her not to come in, as she would lose it if she saw me shackled up. I have thought about this so many times in the last ten years, and this vivid, terrifying moment in my young life will never dissipate from my memory.
I ended up being “released” into my parent’s care, earlier than planned because my lithium level still wasn’t therapeutic, but because my brother, my advocate, told the staff that I had to be discharged because the environment that I was in was making me sicker, and to me, although still manic, had become intolerable. I continued under the close eyes of my mom and dad for a long time ( another month) and then went back to work. I had to go back to work three separate times, because my nurse manager felt I was too lethargic and too sluggish ( most likely due to the heavy medication load I was on). That alone was humiliating.
I did relatively OK until 2009. I had brief stays in psychiatric units, but nothing compared to the first one, when I was diagnosed. Because of these sporadic hospitalizations, I missed both my maternal grandfather and grandmother’s funerals, and I would eventually miss my nephew’s baptism because of a hospital stay.
I hate when I hear people say that this illness is completely controllable. It is absolutely not. A common misconception is that those with mental illness get sick because they stop taking their meds. I am a testament to the fact that this is most certainly a false statement. Since being diagnosed in 2006, I have never not taken my meds. I have never skipped a day. Very tempting though because of the awful side effects commonly associated with psychiatric illnesses. I developed such horrible acne that I had to go on medication for it, I gained 100+ pounds, I had swollen ankles like that of a 8 month pregnant woman, and I- to this day- have fine tremors in my hands. So yes, I fully understand why people choose to stop taking their meds. I have been diligent about that, and I have been life-threateningly sick (suicidal), all the while “following the rules.”
My story is long, and heavily detailed. This is a glimpse into what mental illness is and what it is capable of. I long for the day when mental illness sees just half of the attention that medical illnesses do. As one who lives with mental illness on a daily basis, I hate having to bear such a secret about myself-that being that I have bipolar disorder. There will come a day when we are treated as equals, and not such haste judgement is cast our way because of illnesses that we never asked for-it just came our way. Living with mental illness is like living in a dark room with very little light. Often times we see no way out, except for ending it all. As I have learned more and more about my own illness, I have come to see that it is imperative to have a group of people who love and support you. But, is it also imperative that we learn to be our own advocates. This illness of mine will always be a part of me, and I’m ok with that most of the time. It’s not fair. Not fair at all. I hate this illness, and I have hated it for a long time. I don’t think I will ever be at peace with this diagnosis, but I do feel that I have the capability to live a successful life and hopefully inspire others..
- Molly A. McEleneyRN, BA, MNHP