Hi, my name is Ybsa, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of 30, but since my teenager years I suffer from highs and lows, all my psychiatrists diagnosed me with mayor depression, because I never revealed my manic stages, until my last psychiatrist asks me some questions that revealed and diagnosed bipolar disorder I with psychosis.

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I am a 56 year old mother and very proud grandmother of three. I have struggled with anxiety nearly my whole life. When I was a child, my anxiety caused me to overeat and I was an obese little girl, tipping the scales at 200 pounds in 5th grade. My family has a history of anxiety and my mother did not have the strength or support that we have today. She was a woman of the “valium era” and didn’t drive or work outside of the home. She had little recreation. She took care of her eight children and worked tirelessly in our home.

Even with the fear I always had inside of me, I still had some inner strength and a need to be a voice for others, especially children. When I was a young mother, I was so infatuated by my beautiful children I didn’t recognize that they too, had anxiety issues. My son did not present to us, his teachers, etc. until high school, when his struggle was too hard to bear and he began acting out. After two years of college, he met a woman who was strong to his weak, outspoken to his backwardness; a take the bull-by-the-horns sort of a person. After a brief relationship, she became pregnant and there was an immediate wedding. We were told just to come on a certain date-it was all planned out without our input or advice at all.

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My brother, Mark. was diagnosed w/schizophenia @ age 28. We’ve gone through a living hell ever since. He’s now 51. You name it, we’ve been there. Hospitals, jails, prisons, group homes, assisted living homes, our own homes, witnessing, reporting neglect/abuse. Our family has been there. I wouldn’t wish it on my own worst enemy. Oh and GUILT! That’s a big one that each of us have struggled with. I hate the disease but love the victim. He’s my brother, my parent’s son. He’s a Father with a son. We’ve found that through it all that those who are least likely to understand are his friends, church and family. Looks like it’s here to stay. It’s a never ending cycle. You may ask, who is this guy? Well he was a first to be beautiful and only baby son. He was a great kid. A joy. Playful. Intelligent. Handsome. He went to school..never failed a grade. He went to college. He got a great job, married, had a family. It all started going downhill in his mid to mid 20’s. I went into mental health. I quit jobs in order to take less paying jobs just to be near him. I spent my social life and enormous part of my life just devoted to him. I’m 57 now. Who’ll see that he’s taken care of when I, his sister is gone? Who’ll do it when our parents are gone? I gave him over to God a long time ago and his abusers will, if they haven’t already, reap what they have sown. Family members have to be their voice for they will never be heard or ever taken seriously…

I first had depression and anxiety when I was 12 years old. My mom passed from cancer & a brain tumor. It took several years to get better. I dealt with more episodes of depression too, dealing with some big life changes-a move, dad remarrying and gaining a stepfamily, a toxic bf.. my doctor prescribed an antidepressant and also counseling. Counseling and faith, friends, and family have really been so necessary for me.

Faith is what led me here. Faith destroyed my mind and any hope for what I once considered normal. Faith led me on a path of the fantastic, the dangerous, the lonely and the savior. I have been saved by so many people I have lost count and have too much anxiety to even reprocess what I was even being saved from. Faith had me believing that we will not get our happiness, our freedom or our peace until death. Faith had me thinking that I wasn’t faithful enough to be chosen by God to walk his path and be in his light. What I discovered is that I was in need of my own light.

The voices are constantly reminding me to be more of just about everything I am not so I can acquire everything I don’t have, and I can’t lie, they have kept their promises. They have given me everything in the world that I could logically want and nothing that my searching soul has been dying for in need. They swear my need is not what I actually need, but a spoiled brat’s desire. I am tired. I get so depressed that the thought of moving and hearing the voices wake up makes me contemplate suicide. On good days my mania is so high that I couldn’t come down even if a bomb exploded in the next room. I am so happy that I cannot empathize with others, give them the respect that they deserve or even be around people because my energy is so unstable. My anxiety wrecks me and on days like these. I come home physically and emotionally exhausted and unavailable.

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Faith, by definition, means to have trust or confidence in someone or something. Or in my words, it means to have your eyes set, your focus unshakeable and to rest unafraid. When I picture a Christian who lives by faith, I see a woman or man bold, strong and unbreakable walking without fear, through whatever comes their way.

However, for a lot of us this isn’t what faith looks like most of the time, sometimes your faith looks more teary and swollen eyes, with a racing heart, holding on tight and waiting for the storm to pass. I find this to be especially true when I am in a season plagued by mental illness.

It’s being talked about more than ever before and it’s known as “an epidemic in our nation.” Yet, I find myself frequently confused about what it looks like to live with mental illness and to love the Lord “with all your heart, soul and mind,” in the midst of it. I have lived with mental illness, loved people with mental illness and worked at a psychiatric treatment center for kids struggling with mental illness.

But still, despite my extensive experience and knowledge about it, when I am faced with devastating circumstances or am in the midst of an episode, I still find myself saying to myself, “Everything happens for a reason, yes, this is all part of the plan! Life is an adventure, it’s all going to work out! Smile and get it together!”

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“With love comes hope, with hope comes faith, and with faith miracles happen.” That’s what the sign read at the store when I was purchasing the outfit for my mother to be buried in.

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The purpose of this post is give hope, encouragement, faith and love to the  person who is both an addict and suffers from manic depression.  If you are anything like me, I had no confidence that I could ever recover from the dual diagnosis of chemical addiction and manic depression.  I am living proof that it can be done, with the love and power of Jesus Christ.

Sixteen years ago, I was homeless on the streets of Denver, Colorado.  This was the end of a 28 year battle with chemical dependency and manic depression.

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It’s a daily struggle especially when family doesn’t have any educated input. NAMI has family support groups to help them understand a loved one’s illness and how they fight to stay stable daily. I go through weekly therapy and take medications like Geodon and Klonopin to stay well. Bipolar is a difficult illness to have especially without educated family or friends. You must always listen to your doctors and maintain your med intake even when you may get paranoid and believe you don’t need them, listen to your docs. With their help, I’m hoping to one day be able to hold down a full-time job again.

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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