Story #60

I am 18, and I have always known I was different, but I use to think it was it was because I was unique, as my teachers use to say. When puberty hit was when I started noticing that something wasn't right. I don't know exactly when I discovered my mom was bipolar, but it was never something we talked about. I know mental health issues run deep in one side of my family, but, also, that side of the family was never talked about. When I did try asking my mom for help, she would always tell me I was fine, and that I could get past the problem. And since the only side of my bpd that I could visible see for a long time was the depression, I never suspected the truth. I tried talking to my friends a couple of times, but they never understood and would look at me strangely. So I put on a mask, and hid what I could of my out of control emotions. But almost every night I went to bed crying, thankful that I hadn't broken down in front of anyone.

At the beginning of last year, the mask that I always wore cracked and broke. I couldn't handle keeping it inside anymore. So, I ran...ran from everything, and went through my most life changing manic phase thus far. It wasn't until a little while ago, when I sat down with my boyfriends sister and actually discussed bipolar  (what it is and all of it's symptoms), that I started to see the pattern of its effect on my life. Now, along with fixing the many messes I have made, I'm struggling to understand my self and my problem better.  

I'm afraid to go on meds; I'm afraid to lose the uniqueness that is me. But I can't keep hurting myself or my family and those that care about me. Reading your stories give me strength. To know that I'm not alone; that all of the crazy thoughts, impulses and reactions that I know have no logic to them are felt by others has given me courage to ask others for help again. Now that I know what's wrong, I can learn how to make it something I can live with, and function with in my life.