My Story

Where does my story begin? 

I won’t bore you with details of a traumatic adolescence or give a sob story of abuse, neglect and grave misfortune.  I’m sure my upbringing was just like a million other girls in America.  We all have our story.  This story, my story, will begin in March 2011.  Yes, that was just a few days ago.  I’m 29 years old, a working mother of two and I’ve been married to my husband for almost 9 years.  On this normal evening in March, I found myself sitting in a psychiatrist’s office. 

The small room was bland; decorated with art that could be described as “blah”, the chair was stiff and I was allotted 45 minutes to pour my life’s story into the lap of a stranger.  She was nice enough.  I noted that she was wearing what you would typically see on a mannequin in the NY&Co. store front.  Low quality but put together.  She sat quietly as I described to her how I’ve been feeling the last several months (lack of sleep, irritable, lost, confused, short-tempered, etc)  She asked questions about my life, my history, my parents.  She got me talking about an incident when I was 19 years old when I felt so overwhelmed I made the decision to drive my car off the road.  That resulted in spending a week in outpatient therapy talking about my life and how much it sucked to be 19 with a shitty boyfriend and parents that brushed my feelings off as being a “spoiled brat”.  I guess we covered a lot of ground in 45 minutes.  After hearing my collective stories of outburst, depression, excessive lapses in judgment…she gave me a possible resolution, rather title, to my search for answers of why I feel the way I feel.

“I believe you fit the bill for a bipolar disorder.” she said it the way someone might tell you that you’ve tested positive for strep throat.  So unfortunate, yet so matter-of-fact; not exactly what I had prepared myself to hear that evening.  You mean this isn’t just a “funk” I’m in?  You’re telling me that in 45 minutes you’re going to drop this on me and I’m supposed to walk out of here and go home to my husband and say, “oh honey, it’s all good… answer is simple, I’ve got a mental disorder.  Whew!  Easy-peasy!”  Just as she dropped this bomb on me, our time is up.  She scribbles some notes on a piece of paper, advises me to go home and search WebMD on Bipolar Disorders and the treatments and says she’ll see me in a month.  REALLY??? 

She paused for a moment and asked, “are you OK?  People take this really hard, it’s to be expected.  I want you to have some blood work done for me this week and we’ll discuss everything next month.  Hang in there!  Do your research, write down your questions and talk to your husband.”  That was that.  I quietly walked out of the room and down the hall where I then scheduled an appointment for four weeks out.  I adamantly informed the receptionist that if there were any cancellations prior to the four weeks, to please call me immediately.

I walked out to my car, slid into the drivers seat and began to sob.  My phone has several missed calls and texts.  It's my husband.  "You ok?"  I text him back.  "No.  I'm coming home."  I start the car and in the 8 minutes it takes me to drive home, I find myself sinking deeper and deeper into a state of confusion.