My name is Nicole and I am a 37-year-old mother of 4.
I was officially diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder (which I will henceforth refer to as BP) in September of 2007. I say "officially diagnosed" because it was the first time someone put a label on the nightmare that was my life. Since being diagnosed I have been surprised at just how prevalent BP is in society. After deciding to talk about it openly (like coming out of the BP closet-hah!) I have discovered that quite a few of my acquaintances also suffer BPD. I have to wonder if I am subconciously drawn to kindred souls? Interesting thought, I will have to muse on this.
The majority of people are afraid of a person with a mental disorder. When most people hear the word "Schizophrenic" or "Bipolar" I imagine a vision of an axe-wielding Jack Nicholson in The Shining flashes into their heads. I know because I used to think the same thing. I feel that as both a nurse and sufferer of BPD I have a very unique opportunity to help educate and hopefully to help dispell some of the fear. Also, it is my hope that someone, somewhere out there who has BP and does not know it, will discover themselves amongst these pages and realize that they are not alone.
I must warn anyone reading this blog that I do not tend to write in chronological order-so my blogs will jump time frames and topics, It is how my mind works :)
I have known all my life, from my earliest memories as a child, that I was different. My childhood was very painful for me, through no one else's fault. I remember feeling this abiding sense of fear, and this fear was always with me. I lived my life in the shadows, not knowing how to make or keep friends; not knowing how to put into words what I was feeling. I immersed myself in books, hungrily devouring novel after novel. My mother used to take me with her to the Musty and Dusty book exchange every Saturday afternoon, Mom loved to read as much as I, and now I suspect it was for the same reason-to escape from harsh reality.. Books allowed me to enter worlds and make friends with people and places that did not require me to interact with them. sometimes I felt like a voyeur, snooping and spying on fictional characters, wishing that I too could "live" in the world. The children at school tried to make friends with me, which terrified me, and so I withdrew until, eventually they all gave up. Years later, reconnecting with these people on Facebook, I was stunned to hear from a lot of them that they thought I was snobby and stuck-up. Wow.
I spent years hiding either behind my floor-length drapes or under my bed. In order to read, I had to be under my bed and I HAD to have a yellow, Number 2 pencil, and I had to tap the eraser on each and every page I was reading. This was some kind of Obsessive-Compulsive behavior. As I got older, my OCD turned to cleaning. I spent hours and hours cleaning and organizing. Looking back, I think I felt that, if everything was perfect, then my world was safe. To this day, I cannot tolerate a mess. If a room is messy, it clouds my thinking, and I feel this rising sense of panic and loss of control. I have been known to walk into someone's house and grab a bottle of cleanser and go to town. Luckily, most people like this little quirk of mine.
I discovered alcohol at the age of 14, at my uncle's wedding reception. My aunt slipped me a drink (I don't even remember what it was), and when it hit my bloodstream, I felt the fear and anxiety melt away for the FIRST TIME in my life. Of course I had to have another drink, and another, and pretty soon I was completely shit-faced. My mother had a cow, but I didn't care; I had found the magic elixir.
After that, I spiraled downhill rather quickly. I attempted to commit suicide during the 9th grade school year. I got the message from family that it was something to be ashamed of and shoved in that closet with all our other family skeletons. My father actually said to me at the hospital "do you know how much this is gonna cost me?" Not one single person in my family ever mentioned it again. It pretty much reaffirmed my belief that I shouldn't be taking up space on this planet.
Anyway, after the wedding incident, I looked for any and every opportunity to use alcohol. It allowed me to forget. As my father was an alcoholic, there was always a supply of vodka around, the trick was finding it. Dad hid his liquor because when my mother found them she would pour them out. I guess he assumed that if she didn't see him drink it, then it didn't really happen. So, I would find a bottle, pour out the vodka into a jar for myself, and fill the bottle with water. I could always tell when Dad had discovered one because he would glare silently at me. He couldn't say a word tho without blowing his dirty little secret. For years we lived in this silent war. I have since learned that this is a common pattern in alcoholic families-the ever-present "pink elephant' that everyone was trained to pretend didn't exist. My parents were so immersed in this destructive cycle that there was no room for anything-or anyone else in their lives.
