fbpx
Real Stories

Sacrificing my physical body to my mental health

Today, I had an appointment with my psychiatrist and she noticed a repetitive motor dysfunction in my face. I’ve actually had people point out that I’m doing “something weird” with my face over the past year, but I always brushed it off because I had no idea what they were talking about. Well today my doctor explained that it’s a side effect of one of my medications. She said right now it’s small and insignificant, but continuing on this medication could worsen the symptoms and I could experience more dysfunction in my face and shoulders. So based on her recommendation, I am now beginning the weaning process to come off this medication and will be trialling new medications in the near future.

I’ve experienced many side effects from the numerous medications I have been on, but the challenges of being bipolar never cease to surprise me. There are many emotions I experience when I discover another unhealthy symptom of my meds. And today I initially experienced anxiety. Any medication change makes me nervous, especially when I am functioning so well on my current regiment. There’s no way to predict how it will effect me and I rely so heavily on my meds for sanity. Will lowering the dose send me tumbling into mania? What horrible weight gain, acne, mood swings, or motor dysfunction will a new medicine bring? The unknown is always a cause for perturbation.

The most difficult thought I experienced when hearing this news is that I will ultimately be sacrificing my physical body for my mental health. Regardless, I will always choose to take my medicine because I know that bipolar disorder can only be properly treated with medication and therapy; it must be a combination of both. Like most diseases, it can’t be willed away and requires medical intervention. But every time I am reminded of the toxicity of the medications that I need, sorrow creeps in.

I have accepted the fact that my life path has never been and will never be average or normal. And I know I have many things to be grateful for. But it’s hard not to feel sad that I am consciously poisoning my body. I will probably never be able to have children and I will probably lose my liver to anti-psychotics. The reality is my lifespan will probably be shorter because of the drugs I am willingly ingesting. And that is a hard truth to be at peace with. And today that is what inspires me to write.

Some of you may think I’m foolish for choosing this for myself, but to those of you who do, all I have to say is you have no idea what true psychosis feels like. This is only one of many of the harms I’ve experienced from my prescriptions and I am still going to choose to continue to take them anyways. I even asked my doctor would it be that bad if I just lived with the tremor in my face because this drug has stabilized my moods so well. But she said it’s only going to get worse and could be permanent if we don’t get me off it. So I reluctantly obliged.

So for this moment, I will let myself feel sad. I will mourn the loss of this medication that has aided me these past couple years. I will grieve over the normalcy I will never feel. I will pity the life I will not have and the things I will not do. But tomorrow I will be grateful for the bit of life I get to have. I will thank my doctor for being so astute and being the support I need. I will chose to work hard on myself everyday and continue to grow and flourish. For I am bipolar and I have overcome so much already.

If you enjoyed this piece, be sure to check out The Darkness

Comment
by Christi Anne Ng

People always say your illness doesn’t define who you are, but honestly I completely disagree. I am my disorder. I am bipolar disease. I wouldn’t be who I am today without it. And at several points in my life it controlled me, but I am happy to say today it does not have as much power over me. I don’t think defining myself by my disease is a bad thing. I think it gives power to how much I have overcome.

Hi, I’m Christi Anne and I’m bipolar. It’s a part of me. It’s my friend and it’s my foe. On my bad days, I am insane and psychotic. On my sad days, I am depressed and bed-ridden. On my good days, I am unstoppable.

Mental illness has never been unfamiliar to me. I started seeing a psychiatrist when I was 7. My mom always says I was her easiest child until I started going to school. So 7. I started going crazy at 7. ADHD was the first diagnoses. I remember certain days in 5th grade when I was bouncing off the walls and just would not shut up, my teacher would pull me aside and whisper, “Did you take your medicine today?”

Of course, I didn’t.

I’m 10 and I want to be bouncing off the walls.

Little did I know, these were the earliest days of mania. But I actually don’t remember much about my childhood. Another lovely side effect of my beautiful disease, memory inhibition. And what I do remember, I only think of negatively. I remember the anxiety so high that my heart would be beating out of my chest and my muscles would feel stiff. I remember depression so low that the floor of my bedroom was the only place I could be, wailing until my tears turned dry. I remember rage. Oh how I remember rage. I remember kicking a hole in that wall. I remember screaming at the top of my lungs. I remember my vision being blurred with red.
I wasn’t even diagnosed with bipolar disorder until I was 18. It took me moving to Chicago, spending a total of 2 days on my new college campus, then running away to get the diagnose. I don’t blame my doctors though. I’ve had very good doctors. I’m just a really complicated patient. Plus, I didn’t ever understand myself enough to express to the doctors what I needed help with. I didn’t think the anger and rage was unusual. I just thought the anxiety and mania was normal because I didn’t know otherwise. So in those therapy sessions, I only talked about the depression. I only discussed the intense sadness that overcame me and the times I felt like killing myself.

It wasn’t until my “brief college experience” did I open my eyes to the intense high followed by crashing so low. Even then, it wasn’t that clear to me. All I knew was my mind was racing and I felt totally and completely insane. I called up my parents begging for someone to save me and give me a break from my mind. I couldn’t handle being with my thoughts anymore. So they flew me out to their house and signed me up for psychiatry again. It was then when the doctor said, “It’s called mania. You’re a manic depressive.”

And oh I wish it was a quick fix then and there with the diagnosis. It would’ve prevented a whole lot of broken relationships and damaged souls. But again, I’m not that simple. It’s been 6 years and I’m still battling this disease. But now I can confidentially say I am surviving.

I take six different medications on a daily basis. Yes, six. And I wouldn’t hesitate to add more if needed. I dedicate my life to my medications. They have saved me from my mind. I have found a mental illness cocktail that works for me. And after 6 years and 6 medications, I finally feel hope. I see a bright and successful future down the path. And I am excited. And I am happy. Yes, happy.

If there is one thing I would want people to understand about me, it would be that every day I have to make the decision to get up and be stronger than my illness. That rolling out of bed and getting started with the day takes immense amount of energy. Because every day could have the potential for mania. Honestly, there is not a night that goes by that I don’t wish I could close my eyes and stop my mind forever. But the morning always comes and I always decide to wake up.


Website

More From Real Stories

What If You Have Enough?

by Jaynice Del Rosario

You Were Mine

by Sandy Deringer

Purity Culture Did Me More Harm Than Good

by Linda M. Crate

Understanding What it Means to be an Introvert

by Lorna Roberts

Ready, Start, Go – Childhood Lessons

by Heather Siebenaler

What can January offer?

by Emmy Bourne