We live in a society that is far too quick to berate people for their vulnerability. Openness is often seen as weakness and vulnerability is hardly ever claimed as a sign of strength. But frankly, I'm finished with holding back. I'm finished feeling that a part of who I am needs to be hidden, for fear of judgment, fear of offending someone, fear of losing friends, or fear of people disowning me, fear of employers falling prey to degrading mental health stereotypes and using my own words against me. I've always wanted to fight the stigma, but then I've been afraid to actively do so. Not anymore.

What am I even talking about?

Not only do I struggle with depression and anxiety, but I struggle with obsessive-compulsive disorder and underneath of it all, bipolar disorder.

I've always wanted to speak up. I've always wanted mental health to be something that could be discussed. I want to educate people. I want people to realize that mental illness is a very real entity, based in biological and physiological processes and hormones.

I suppose my story started when I was born, although I was only diagnosed with bipolar disorder this past May. I remember feeling like I couldn't function properly. I recalled the phases of hand-washing until my hands bled because I never felt clean enough, and all the other instances of crippling anxiety years before this, but I had never experienced such a distinct sense of difficulty with my day-to-day routine.

I didn't know how to respond. I felt like no one understood me, and like no one ever would, even though that was only a figment of my own imagination that has since then been disproved. Regardless of the truth, the only reality was the one that I was experiencing within the confines of my own imagination, also known as a terrifying place to be when feeling swallowed by mental illness.

So I wrote the following letter. I'm telling you now that it is brutally honest (although I did alter a few of words where I felt it was appropriate). I'm also telling you that I don't think I could have imagined actually posting it somewhere online back in May, but there's also been a part of me that has been simply waiting for the right time to share it with the world. The time is now.

I've learned a lot about my disorder since May, and I've learned even more about myself as a person. These are the words of a person who just discovered something vastly frightening about her own mind. A lot of the letter you are about to read hints at the idea that "I can get through this on my own!" when it took me five more months to realize that I needed more help than I acknowledged at the onset of my first serious episode. I recently left school for a week-long medical leave to receive the help I needed for my three disorders, and now I am pushing forward.

Thank you in advance for reading it, respecting me and, most importantly, caring about mental health. I hope you take something from my experience, regardless of what your struggles may be. If you learn anything from this, please remember to take care of yourself. You are beautiful, valuable, and here for a reason. Yes--life can be more difficult than anyone can comprehend, but we are all human, and so we can all relate, at least somehow. If I can get through it, you most certainly can, too.

5/9/2015

My name is Siena, and I am bipolar.

A week ago, I didn’t know what the “problem” was. I was having unexplained panic attacks, thoughts that raced and raced, a feeling of nonsensical foreboding, or an inkling that I was causing people absurd amounts of trouble in their lives. When I received my formal diagnosis this past Monday, I became a paradox. One half of me was relieved; there was biochemistry motivating me to be such a self-critical and snappily anxious mess. On the other hand, I was left feeling different (in a negative sense), practically “messed up,” and full of rationalizations (“My bipolar explains it. I’m bipolar, of course I would do that.”)

So, my life feels different now that I have a diagnosis. Too bad I’m intelligent, which is a blessing and a curse (my doc’s words, not mine), and I’ll learn to deal with it…at least eventually. The hilarious, yet incredible, yet extremely peculiar part of this entire situation is that even when I’m having a panic attack, I have the ability to analyze what’s going on, and I realize how entirely irrational I am! I understand the root of my behavior, and how to control it, but then I choose not to. I think it’s about time I learn to make other choices, because then I can really freak people out when they realize I have the power to manipulate a disorder that appears to be much more powerful than it actually is. Let’s be honest–bipolar disorder is basically a man with inflatable muscles and slide-on tattoo sleeves. Rip off the tats and pop the muscles, and you’ve got yourself a scrawny man.

While I don’t feel that my bipolar brain is out to get me, it’s certainly there to give me a run for my money and I can’t escape it. That’s when I become terrified–when I realize I’m trapped within my own reality. I can’t leave this state of bipolared-ness. Any scientist will tell you as long as there’s gravity, what’s “up” must come “down,” and it’s also true of the bipolar folks. Even the strongest natural high can be broken in half by a stressor, and then I’ll feel myself crash and fall until my self-confidence boils into a pile of worthlessness. It’s annoying to feel incredibly beautiful, realize I have a huge exam I haven’t studied for, and then look at myself in the mirror and feel ugly.

And the thing that’s really funny about this is that I realize that’s a load of crap.

I’m extremely loved, I surround myself with people of amazing love and intellect, and I have a profound connection with the Divine. I always have food on my table and in my stomach, a bed to sleep in, and the ability to swindle money from my parents as needed. I can sing, I can pretend to dance (that was just a joke to lighten the mood, I suck at dancing and that isn’t my depressed self-esteem talking), and I have the ability to inspire. What more could I possibly ask for?

Unfortunately, that’s not how it always feels. My bipolar disorder manifests itself with absurd amounts of irrational P A R A N O I A. A trivial matter triggers what must be some sort of chemical reaction. I feel my axons pulsating throughout my entire nervous system, telling me that something must be wrong, even when most of the time, nothing is. Because I’m convinced that my perception of reality is most accurate, I feel entitled to my sense of fear or anxiety. That’s when nothing or no one can calm me down, at least for a few minutes. That’s also my narcissism shining through, if I become more frustrated when my fear is invalidated. Someone telling me nothing is wrong could result in greater frustration because of my feeling of omnipotent knowledge within my own psyche. I’ll admit on paper that my logic is sometimes the most flawed that logic could be, but fortunately I have the rhetoric and persuasiveness to convince people otherwise. I’m just that good.

Since bipolar disorder within itself is probably the most paradoxical health condition that has ever roamed the human body, it’s safe to say that I, too, am a paradox. Having so many facets comes with responsibility, but in all truth, it’s quite interesting living inside my mind. I know the total spectrum of human emotion, from the dark, depressive, gloomy abyss of nothingness, to a ridiculous natural high. Anyone with my condition can tell you that the lows are low, but oh, yes, the highs are high. I suppose I’ve always known it with me, that every day is a gamble. I could wake up feeling like a snail who was just flushed down a toilet, or I could wake up feeling like the horse who just won the Kentucky Derby. It’s a combination of circumstance, neuroscience, and ultimately, my own will.

Here’s another kicker: I’m also such a hypocrite. And I’m really not saying that to be self-critical, but it’s true, I think. I’ve spent hours of my life telling people how happiness is a choice, how we have much more control over our mind than we believe, and how the struggles in life are beautiful…and then, I don’t take my own advice. I wallow in my racing thoughts, and persuade myself that I am out of control. My guilt consumes me and I convince myself I’ve done something wrong, eaten something wrong, said something wrong, or been something wrong. And again–since the thoughts stem from me, they feel real. I feel entitled and, therefore, I feel correct.

The bipolar mindset has me feeling like I’m always on some sort of quest, attempting to solve some internal mystery, have a life-changing revelation, or more often than not, identify the issues that are supposedly ruining my life (which isn’t actually happening. The illusions are pretty convincing, too). I look for problems the same way I look for the dessert table at any special event. I want to find them, because then they’ll give me a reason to believe my own brain, or in other words, to eat the cake I want to feed myself. Because I’ve had this mindset for so long, it is terribly challenging to break, but it’s absolutely possible. I’ve known it all along, but perhaps I’m just realizing now that there’s nothing wrong with being happy even when life isn’t perfect, because there’s never going to be a time that absolutely everything will be literally perfect, at least according to my own perception. When one looks for flaws, she finds them…but it works both ways. When one looks for happiness, she finds it and that is when she must seize it and run away from the flaws so quickly that her only imperfection is the grits of dirt beneath her toes and the sweat running down her cheeks from the miles she had to run.

My fears aren't usually valid. Any respectable person will say that no fear is invalid and no fear is stupid, but because I’m only talking to myself and I have every right to be harsh, I'll outright invalidate them. So let's do that, right here, right now. Just because I eat two scoops of ice cream doesn’t mean I’m going to automatically gain a pants size. Just because I go through a rough patch doesn’t mean I’m burdening the entire universe with my problems. Just because I accept help from people doesn’t make me a wimp. Just because I try a new medicine doesn’t mean I’m automatically going to die as a side effect (and even if I did, I do believe in Heaven, so there’s literally no point in worrying). I’m convinced that the feeling of fear itself is far greater than the sadness or anger one would experience if that given situation were to actually occur. I’m sure there are exceptions to this statement, but if I’m as mentally strong as I know I am, I can face anything and come out from the other side alive. It doesn’t mean I won’t be scarred, bloody, limping, or covered in my own tears, but it means I’ll have a beating heart in my chest, or at the very least a fiery soul.

So, what do I do now? I was hoping that writing everything down would somehow give me an answer, but that’s not true because I’ve actually had the answer all along. I don’t exactly know what’s been preventing me from sucking up all of this and being the tough-skinned Siena I know I can be. I’ve probably convinced myself that hearing this diagnosis has changed my life, and therefore changed me, and so I have to act to fit the part. I’ve also enjoyed the sympathy and extra love, which has honestly helped me get through this storm. I think more than anything though, I’ve succumbed to the storm, and I’ve been afraid of being electrocuted or left deaf by the thunder, when in the end, the storm is simply passing by me.

But what is the reality? It is that I am the same exact Siena I have been for the past 17 years. Now I’m just a hell of a lot cooler (kidding, partially). But really – in all seriousness, bipolar people are some of this universe’s dynamic, emotional, analytical, intelligent individuals who experience pangs of inspiration and motivation that can take the world by storm. First, I must realize that we’re all different and weird and quirky, just some people more than others. This is one of my quirks. It’s only twice as large a deal as the fact that I can put my left foot behind my head (again, kidding). Being bipolar is a storm that will always come and go, such as the world’s weather, to be disgustingly cliché. There will the sunny days, the rainy days, the cloudy days, the frigid days, and the days where the thunderstorm turns into a rainbow and the calm emerges from the chaos.

I have too many things to do, and more importantly too many people to love to allow my mind to work against me. Instead, I must alter my perspective as I have always done before. This does not mean I will never cry, throw a temper tantrum, or have a panic attack. It means that I will comprehend why, and I will love myself through the entire process, even as I compulsively apologize when I lose some self-control and stuff my face with ice cream because everyone loves stress-eating sometimes.

My name is Siena and I am bipolar, among a million other equally interesting personal characteristics. I am strong and stubborn, and I promise you’ll love me for it.