I never realized starting a blog would be so scary. Probably the most difficult thing I've ever done. I come from a place where everything is private. You don't let anyone else know "your business". But not letting anyone know "my business" has almost killed me. You see, I am an African American woman. With a history of Bipolar Disorder and Self Injury/Mutilation. And I need to tell my story.
I remember my first manic episode like it was yesterday. January 1986, my last semester of college. Winter break. I woke up that morning feeling something wasn't right. I couldn't sit down, I couldn't stand up, I couldn't stop walking, but felt I couldn't move an inch. I felt like I was somewhere outside of myself, and I couldn't bring me back to me. Some people are exhilarated when they are in a manic phase. It's never been like that for me. It's scary, frightening, foreign. It's exhausting, bone crushing exhaustion. But there is no rest. No let up. No respite. I literally feel myself going crazy and I can do nothing to stop it. So I walk. And I talk for hours on end. Loudly. And I dance. And I don't sleep. My mind races, it never ever stops running away. And I become afraid. Who is that person at the door? Is it safe outside of my bedroom or the bathroom? How far can I go outside before it becomes unsafe? If I go too far I will die. If I die in public people will see me and I don't want anyone to see me. Can't ever let anyone know there is something wrong with me. That my life is not perfect. That I am not ... perfect.
I must say my fiance at the time was wonderful. For some reason even though he didn't know what was wrong, he got it. He knew what to do to make me feel safe, he even took me to a doctor. Unfortunately, I was diagnosed with depression, given pills and sent home. I managed to pull things together enough to start my last semester, but still things were wrong. I had to sit right beside the door in every class so I could escape in case something happened. There was something horrible just waiting around every corner, and I had to be ready to get the hell out quickly. While sitting in class I would pull my hair out, trichotillomania; a common form of SI, to remain calm. I always had what old people called "baby hair" and that's what I pulled out. It was discreet, I could do it without anyone noticing. Like no one close to me didn't notice my whole hairline was bald. I found my schedule of 18 credits too demanding, so I had to drop half of my classes. I had gone to school all year around to make sure I graduated in three years instead of four and this was ruining it!! "What is wrong with me?" I wondered as I pulled out more hair.
Toward the end of January my mood started to shift. Days were dark outside as well as inside of me. Struggling to get out of bed was all consuming, most days I didn't make it. Being in my last year fortunately the classes I kept were pretty much an extension of earlier classes so I could miss class and still pass tests. And thanks to my earlier manic phase I'd written three 15-25 page term papers in about 4 days which were surprisingly very well done. I've always had a gift for writing papers and taking tests though, something for which I am eternally grateful. So here were the dark days. I remember very little from this time except grayness. Until the day of relief. Going downstairs to put dishes in the dishwasher and dropping a coffee cup. Picking up the pieces of blue and white crockery and forming the thought "I wonder what would happen if I cut myself with this?" So I did it. And it worked. My relief.
