I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, type 1, at the age of sixteen and had only been on medication for half of those years. I struggled to want to take the medication. At the time of my accident, I had been unmedicated for eight years. I wasn’t necessarily planning to end my life at the time, but my bipolar disorder makes me so impulsive and makes me feel everything so immensely that I just react sometimes.
I struggled to want to be better. High highs and low lows, maybe you know how the story goes. Writing what felt like the next Great American Novel when manic, feeling like I could do or be anything and working to make it possible, while feeling like nothing could stop me. Euphoric, manic. Feeling totally alone in the world, feeling unwanted, and a burden on everyone, analyzing every mistake I had ever made in my entire life at three in the morning while I prayed for sleep to come. Desolate, depressed.
Bipolar disorder led me to make risky and impulsive decisions like using drugs and having unsafe sexual encounters. I didn’t care about myself, I didn’t value myself, and life was a burden. It was hard to see the forest despite the trees. Before my accident, I was just biding my time and waiting for my time to die. I was sure that my life would end at my own hand. I couldn’t bear my own existence.