I know that we all have those weaknesses and limitations that sometimes torment our sanity and threaten our hope for happiness. I will never claim to hold a stronger knowledge of pain or sadness than others. All I know is myself and the form the yellow wallpaper takes in my periphery.
I woke up this morning with 3 options haunting my every thought; overdose; go off your meds and leave the country; let them lock you up. I was crying in what is now my old bedroom and thinking about how many awful memories that very room has been an accessory to in the past 20 years. The sadness; the tears; it was horrifying. How could one tiny, unimportant life be filled with such misery? And if, after all this time, my solution is still limited to the same 3 options, how on earth can I ever claim happiness? I remember the first time I tried to kill myself I was 10. It was in this room. I had a thin rope that was just long enough to wrap around my small, 10 year old neck. I tried to strangle myself but instead walked away alive, with a cluster of purple marks all around the skin of my neck. I was a ten year old amateur who was too depressed to live and too scared to die. I guess my will to live is much stronger than I give it credit for, because here I am, 19 years later, still contemplating death but unsuccessful to this day. So I called my therapist and I walked out of my dreadful room. That was the first step.
On the other side of that door was the familiar sound of my dear friend Joni's voice. Her and my mom became tight in their 30's and I instantly took a liking to her. A funny, beautiful, recovered alcoholic with amazing talent and remarkable wisdom, Joni had a way of making sense of the things I had yet to understand. I had no idea I was bipolar and I certainly didn't think I was an alcoholic, but I related to her in a way I had never related to anybody. From body image issues to male obsession, she always seemed to know exactly what to say. So when she came over to pick my mom and I up for lunch the relief was almost instant.
". . . I still use you as an example whenever I talk to other women in the program who struggle with bipolar disorder. You have never allowed yourself to be victimized by it. To those who are still struggling, you are an example that it is possible to come out the other side. You were bad, as bad as Jenn, maybe even worse, but you fought it and look at you now, you're living your life, you moved to California, you're in a healthy relationship, you're doing everything you said you wanted to do; you're amazing, you really are. You're nothing like you used to be."
Funny, about 10 minutes ago, I was. Jesus, I don't want to be that person again. I've come so far. So I pulled my head out of my ass and had a strange realization. I keep looking for answers but I've been asking myself the wrong questions. All this time I have been looking, with no success, for an example of a recovered alcoholic that is manic depressive, sane, strong and completely competent. I've become so diluted by my own frustrations and sense of hopelessness that I have forgotten that that very example I have been searching for, is me. I owe it to myself, and to the many other people that are struggling with bipolar disorder and alcoholism, to survive, to be a testament to everything we're capable of, and to be that very person that I have so desperately looked for. All this time she was looking right back at me.
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