“ Manic -depression (bipolar) distorts moods and thoughts, incites dreadful behaviors, destroys the basis of rational thought, and too often erodes the desire and will to live. It is an illness that is biological in its origins, yet one feels psychological in the experience of it; an illness that is unique in conferring advantage and pleasure, yet one that brings in it's wake almost unendurable suffering and, not infrequently, suicide.”
An Unquiet Mind
by Kay Redfield Jamison

"To be borderline (borderline personality disorder) is to have little sense of who you are or what turns you on. At its extreme, it may mean having to turn to others for cues in order to know when to eat or drink, work or rest, or even laugh or cry. It may mean intensely embracing a person, idea, or thing one day, and having no use at all for it the next. This lack of a constant picture of one’s self, one’s values, or one’s passions is at the hear of the borderline personality.”
Lost in the Mirror
by Richard A. Moskovitz, MD

I remember my first manic episode. I was between 10 and 11 years of age, and I was angry. Bad things were happening that were beyond my ability to cope with. I remember looking up directly into the Sun and seeing 'god' and I screamed at him, "Fine!! Fine!! If this is the way it's going to be then I give my soul to the devil!" Subsequently, I blacked out and then saw spots for hours afterwards. I can always remember feeling that 'god' or some Power greater than me, was out to get me. As the years progressed, this internal dialog with this so-called 'god' became highly personal. I actually believed that I was cursed and hated directly by 'god'.

As my moods became more and more erratic, I would have manic 'spells' or visions. They would make me feel super human; I would know things that I couldn't possibly know, I was full of endless amounts of energy, everything seemed more in focus; I swear I could see the leaves of plants unfurling. Sometimes I would get high from it and have visions of the weirdest things and places. It was bliss. I wanted to be 'manic' all of the time, in order to have these visions and this superhuman energy and would do whatever I had to, to get there. For me, this ties in with the unhealthy borderline behavior that defined my choices. I used alcohol to trigger myself into a drunken stupor...and would black out and wake up in places I don't remember getting to. I would have sex indiscriminately...and I would self-injure. Anything, to have visions and get out of the misery that was my life.

But the manias came with less and less frequency....and I began to become depressed for longer periods of time. These depressions were the sort where I would stop functioning. I couldn't stay awake...I was often late for work...I would snap at co-workers during my manic spells for being too slow in their thinking and explode into rages at them for annoying me when I was depressed. I would sleep for 12 hours straight, then at work type the same line over and over again or reorganize the same files over and over. Finally, my money started disappearing...at one point I had close to 100 Angora sweaters that I didn't remember buying and hadn't paid my rent in months.

By this point my moods had disintegrated into mixed episodes and I began to lose my sanity. A mixed episode is where you are depressed and manic simultaneously. There were no longer any manias to take me away from my life, just visions come to life as nightmares telling me that I wasn't good enough to live and should kill myself. I remember sobbing hysterically because I couldn't make them shut up. I would explode into rage so intense that I ended up destroying walls, and doing everything within my power to 'punish' myself for not being able to control myself via self-injury. However, it just got worse and worse...I quit eating. I got fired. My car was repossessed. My gas (heat and cooking) was turned off, and then I was evicted. I actually became homeless.

I am 36 years old. I hold a Bachelor's degree in the College of Arts from the University of Pittsburgh. When I worked, I was driven and extremely good at my job. I was making a good living. I am considered attractive. By all standards, I am not the kind of person perceived as being 'mentally ill'. But I am. I am mentally ill.

I was diagnosed with Rapid Cycling bipolar; mixed episodes and Borderline Personality Disorder. What finally led to my diagnosis was a visit to an inept therapist (whom I'd been seeing for months and whom didn't recognize my symptoms), a car, and voices telling me to drive myself into a light pole at 80 miles an hour. I almost did. The therapist threatened me with the police and incarceration in a mental institution. I was crying...but I would have fought to the death if any man would have tried to force me to do anything. The therapist was totally freaked out...in hindsight, I was like some caged animal...I ragefully begged her to call my mother instead. My mother came and drove me to St. Francis Hospital, recognized for it's mental health facility. I was scared shitless. All of my life, I had believed that if I was just better, if I just tried harder...I could control it. The hospital was a sign of failure to me. To actually go and admit myself would have been a brand of failure.

My mother pulled into the parking garage and we just sat there. She just sat next to me in the car and told me that it was my choice. That no matter what decision I made, she would always love me. That this wasn't my fault. That she knew that I didn't want to be like this. That I could be helped. But it was my choice. I had to decide. I was so scared...but I managed to come out of my own pain and fear long enough to see her...and I mean actually see her. In that moment, I saw someone, in more pain than me. She knew me well enough to know that If I was forced into the hospital, I would have charmed my way out and killed myself to prevent it from ever happening again. She knew that if I didn't get help, I would probably also end up killing myself. She was sitting next to her baby daughter, helpless to do more than trust in the God of her understanding and some other essence of me that I was unaware of.

She looked at me, my own eyes, looking at me...and set me free. It was my choice. It was like a sea of calm spread over me and I made my decision and turned my life over to St.Francis. My mother would tell you that I saved my own life, but no. My mother saved my life.

That's my story. The art on the other pages will tell the rest...the more powerful message of healing. I am medically stable today...and still free. I still have mood shifts. At times, I remember the mania and grieve for it in a way that can't be described with words. It will always remain a part of me and like with Death, I will always dance with it. But the key to my recovery, is that I choose to live without it.

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