Just When It Couldn't Get Any Worse

My life, newly diagnosed with bipolar, was a disaster in every meaning of the word. My marriage, relationships with family, and opinion of myself dissolved into little bits of glass that cut deep. Although no one could tell from looking at me, those bits of glass were shredding my insides, my heart, my soul, my desire to live.

The doctor who diagnosed me started me on a regimen of prescription drugs that covered everything from anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, and sleeping pills. I was his lab rat and he never hesitated to have me on at least six different medications at one time. Reality as I knew it faded into zombie-like living. I went through the motions of work and home life without really caring about the consequences of what I did or how I acted.

My marriage unraveled quickly and my husband was not supportive of my treatment. He was convinced that bipolar was some sort of virus that, over time, could be healed. My drinking was out of control and instead of trying to help, he poured out any liquor I bought before I had a chance to drink it. Maybe you think this was "helping" but it wasn't. This only fueled my fire and the rage I experienced was soon out of control. We fought constantly and, frankly, I wanted nothing to do with him. Now, I'm not saying I was without fault during our marriage, because I did many things that pushed us apart and I have come to accept my bad decisions and ask forgiveness. But at the time, I never felt anything. I didn't feel guilt, remorse, love....I was hollow. My heart and soul were ripped out and there was nothing left. I wanted to die.

Inevitably, my marriage ended badly. I moved to a small studio apartment, again on my own. Within about three weeks, I discovered that my husband had a girlfriend move in with him. I really can't come up with words that can describe that point in my life so I'll just leave it at that.

On my own, once again, my self-destructive behavior escalated. With no one to "babysit" me I lost control. Alcohol ruled my life and there weren't many days that went by that I was not intoxicated. I was in school at the time, plus I was holding down a full time job. It absolutely blows my mind to look back on the decisions I made. God saved my life for reasons, at that time, I did not realize.

I took my medication when I felt like it and kept drinking. I met new groups of friends whose goal was keep the party going and I was totally up for the challenge. The men in my life were absolutely pitiful. What I saw in them, I've yet to understand.

During this time, I started seeing a new psychiatrist. During our first appointment, I knew I was onto something. He was awesome. He explained many things about bipolar that I had never known and actually made sense of it. He took me off the concoction of medications and put me on two: an anti-depressant and an anti-psychotic. Two medications!!! I was excited! But between appointments, it happened.

On my lunch break one day, I went to the pharmacy to fill my script. They did not have the medication I needed and it would be a couple of days until they got it. Something so minor turned almost deadly. I ran out of the pharmacy in tears and furious. I steered my car directly to the liquor store, picked up a bottle of vodka, and proceeded to consume almost the entire bottle. Totally freaked out, I called my doctor and told him what I had just done. Within the next hour, I was admitted to a "behavioral institution," also known as rehab.

I was at the bottom. Here I was in a place I knew I shouldn't be and the only reason they admitted me was because I told them if I went home, I would proceed to overdose on my medication. There was no reason for me to be on this earth and it was time to end all this nonsense. It was the wake up call I so desperately needed. I immediately got in touch with my doctor and thankfully he stepped in. I swore that I would do whatever it took to get better. Those three days were awful. Nurses came in all hours of the night to take my blood and make sure I wasn't going through withdrawal. I had a roommate...I hate roommates.

By the grace of God, I walked out of there sober and determined to get better. My doctor was by my side through it all and I was finally learning to trust someone again. I will also say that, even though I denied it at the time, my parents were behind me 110%. As I look back on my days in rehab, the one thing I remember vividly is talking on the payphone to my parents and how they were determined to help, even though they were half the country away.

And there I was in the black hole, looking up the long ladder to recovery. Yet, I was so afraid to start climbing.