From the Psych Unit to Becoming a Therapist

This piece mentions the topic of suicide. Please use your discretion.

Depression is not simply sadness, the inability to experience pleasure, or irritability.

Depression is stumbling through a heavy fog, so dense I cannot see my own feet.

Depression is walking an unending journey in the blistering heat, barefoot, with nothing to quench my thirst.  I do not know my destination, or thus if it is even worth it.

Depression is blinding numbness, an inability to feel or create or believe that anything ever matters.

Depression is mourning—mourning the life you imagined, the one you’re not even sure exists outside the stories of your loved ones.

Depression is a nagging itch, from which I cannot find relief.

Depression is bone-deep exhaustion that cannot be overcome with a nap or even a week’s worth of sleep.

Depression is a lie so complex, it cannot be unraveled.  What is “truth,” after all?

Depression is the thorn in my flesh.

Mania is my soul on fire.

Mania is believing, for once, that I am not only worth it, I am magical.

Mania is sound in color.

Mania is feeling everything so very deeply, that it gives life itself meaning.

Mania is getting paid at 5:00 and being broke by 5:30.

Mania is ALL THE GOOD IDEAS.  Let’s complete ALL THE PROJECTS!

Mania steals my sense of credibility.  I must defend my every choice.

Mania makes life feel worth living… Until it doesn’t anymore.

But mood cycling? Cycling reminds me why I don’t give up. Cycling reminds me life is not all flowers and rainbows. Cycling reminds me what is real; that life is fleeting. Cycling is the nature of bipolar: always changing.

I’ve typically been a fairly good student—on the honor roll, a peer buddy, active in clubs, and friendly with most anyone. I couldn’t wait for college to arrive so I could get out of the house, build my own life, and study the things that interested me. But then depression got deeper and longer and darker. I ended up failing most of my classes and missing a trip abroad to a bucket-list location due to my mental health. I re-engaged in self-harm, made reckless choices, slept every minute I could, and tried to avoid the tears that I couldn’t stop from flowing freely. At the time, I was in therapy, seeking medication, and trying to use my very small support system.  Nothing was helping, and the suicidal thoughts kept building. It got to the point where I didn’t think I could control them any longer.

One afternoon, I found myself sitting on my bed in a room I share with my best friend and roommate in our tiny home, talking to my dog. I had just ditched my therapist, quit taking my medication (Jesus had healed me, I proclaimed!), and despair was boundless. I had a huge assignment due the next day for a professor who mentored me, and while I didn’t want to disappoint her, I could not get myself out of bed to write the paper.

I don’t remember the conversation I was having with Levi, my dog, but I do remember knowing I couldn’t do this anymore. It was all too much. I was too tired, too depressed, too lonely, too dysfunctional, too emotional, too numb, too much of a disappointment, too stressed, too overwhelmed to carry on. I didn’t know how, for sure, but I knew what I had to do: when my friend went to work, I would skip class and end my life. No backing out; not this time.

My friend tells me she knew I was in trouble when she overheard me telling my dog goodbye. He had been the one thing that had kept me going in recent years. The day is mostly a blur, but she eventually coaxed me into going to the hospital for an evaluation for inpatient hospitalization. I do recall walking up to the desk, asking why I needed to be seen, and stammering “I don’t want to be alive anymore.” They quickly ushered me back to a locked wing of the emergency department.

I laid in the tiny bed, feeling so small and overwhelmed, unsure of what was going to happen next. Another friend, who had accompanied us to ensure I got there safely, sat on the bed with me. We made plans to go back to my house following the evaluation and have a movie marathon. Finally, something to look forward to!

The clinician came in and asked my friends to leave while she did the evaluation. When she asked what was going on, the words slid out of my mouth like melted butter. “I’m going to die tonight,” I said, looking down at my arms.

“How?” the woman asked kindly.

“I don’t care. I’ll harm myself. I’ll down some pills. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to die tonight.”

She smiled sweetly and left the room.

Time passed like molasses in the emergency department, and sometime later, they announced I was going “upstairs.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “I’m going home and having a movie marathon!” I was frantic. I can’t stay. I have to go home—I have plans! And so ensued my five-day stay in the psychiatric unit.

I was lucky—I had friends, pastors, and professors visit (with my permission). Their visits brought about moments of honesty and vulnerability. None of them knew I had struggled so deeply, they said. Accountability followed. Diagnoses followed. More therapy and doctors and appointments followed. But what was most lucky was I finally got the help I needed. I was connected with a psychiatrist who, after 10 years of trying medications with little to no success, found a combination that worked for me. By autumn, I’d ceased self-injuring, been consistently taking my medication, and followed through with all of the doctors’ recommendations. For the first time in my life, I was genuinely thrilled to be alive. It’s not that I didn’t still struggle—there’s no magic pill for bipolar disorder. I continue to have my ups and downs, but they’re no longer as severe. I know if I miss my medication, there are serious consequences, so I make it a top priority to always take it consistently.

Growing up, my parents thought it unfortunate to be dependent on medication. It took a long time for me to let go of that belief and the belief that Jesus would just heal me if only I believed enough. Maybe Jesus was healing me—through that small handful of pills I swallow every morning. Or maybe I had to accept the fact that my body needed some help to make it livable. Like a diabetic needs insulin, I too need my medication regimen to function properly. And while it took years for me to come to terms with this, I eventually landed on this: I’d rather have to take a few pills every day and be able to manage my life than to live in such agony that I want to end it all.

I’ll also be forever grateful to the friends who saw my need and intervened. I’m truly glad I didn’t end my life that night. As cliche as it may seem, it does get better or at least easier.

Today, I’m a therapist myself. But I still see my own personal therapist—because life is tough, and so am I.

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Your diagnosis is not the end of your story. You are capable of living with bipolar disorder. Healing is still possible. We encourage you to use TWLOHA’s FIND HELP Tool to locate professional help and to read more stories like this one here. If you reside outside of the US, please browse our growing International Resources database. You can also text TWLOHA to 741741 to be connected for free, 24/7 to a trained Crisis Text Line counselor. If it’s encouragement or a listening ear that you need, email our team at [email protected].