Cleaning Up Your Own Mess: The Chaotic Wake of Untreated Mental Illness

One day, after coming out of a very long and severe depression, I saw the shadow of a tree on the ground, and I was instantly convinced that I knew the secrets of the universe. I had just gone through an out of body experience the day before, which had dissolved my fear of death, and made every acorn look like it contained all the complexity of a galaxy. I couldn’t stop smiling, and would wake up and go to bed with an ear to ear grin.

Seeing the world around me as a meaningless illusion obliterated my anxiety. Nothing could worry me — not the person yelling in my face, not the raindrops pouring on my head, and not the bills piling up in my mailbox. I realized nothing mattered, and was relieved not to have to care so much anymore.

Then I woke up a few weeks later, and felt different. I took a peek through the blinds, and the gray clouds muffled the sunlight I’d gotten used to seeing pierce through the window. I forced myself out of bed, my body feeling stiffer than I remembered, and I thought, “Oh no, is it happening again?”

I tried shaking it off, writing about it, repeating a mantra, or reading a passage from a holy book. I listened to a lecture by Alan Watts, or read Plato, or Schopenhauer. Maybe play some music — Chopin is soothing, or some tribal house. I exercised, watched something funny, binged the Star Wars Saga. Anything but going back…there.

And so it began, again.

Doubt. Confusion. Regret. Disbelief. Anxiety. Tears. Anger. Shame. Agony. Depression.

Cry myself to sleep, cry myself awake.

Rinse and repeat.

Throughout my life, I spent a lot of time at family parties, standing alone in a corner — depressed for no apparent reason. Every time I heard, “Cheer up,” “Be happy,” or “You think too much,” I wanted to bash someone’s head in — and I could have. I was a bodybuilder and an expert martial artist. Though I considered myself a gentle soul, no one wanted to see me angry.

Black sheep of every shade know how hard it is to be surrounded by complete strangers you’ve known all your life. They like all the opposite stuff that you do, and think they know better than you about everything. Black sheep who suffer from bipolar disorder have the added element of spontaneously being up or down, regardless of how the rest of the family is feeling, and often in direct opposition to them. This makes it seem like you’re always being defiant, which puts everyone on the defensive when they are around you. This triggers your own defenses, leading to an expression of anger or aggression — because you feel you should have the right to feel how you feel.

Depression makes you settle for death, and mania or hypomania make you shoot for the stars. There is nothing in between. You have to try really, really hard if you wanna be numb. There is no mechanical living. Everything is felt. It’s just a jump back and forth, between depression and mania, and back again. You can go deeper either way, but there’s no steady progression. It usually happens pretty suddenly.

I learned to curtail my anger when I realized people I cared about were terrified of me. The defenses I had built would click in instantly when I felt threatened. I had developed a longer threshold, but I hadn’t gotten to the root of the anger, so it was always a trigger away. Without anger, only depression, and insanely over the top enthusiasm were left.

Having a different brain means you see and feel things differently than most people, and that your idea of a fulfilling life is also unconventional. I always knew that I wouldn’t be working in the same place for 20–30 years, where I could look forward to a pension and retirement. I wanted to explore a lot of different things, and all of them were longshots. My brain made it difficult for me to plan for the long term, and the quest to be positive kept me from acknowledging the possibility of failure.

All the while, my very practical family yelled at me from the rafters not to take chances. The problem was, they warned against every single risk, and I knew that if I started listening, I’d soon be living a life I hated.

But my condition caused me to take more risks than most people. For a time, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t try. I took everything to extremes. It was a lot of fun — but I paid a heavy price. A good life left me understimulated, and the imaginary life I dreamed of was ever elusive. I finally became content and grateful for the life I’d built, but then I lost it all — my material possessions, social network, family and hope.

After life fell apart, hypomania made me jump head on into rebuilding my life and living as if I was having the greatest time. I didn’t think I needed treatment anymore. I was going to show the world and make it on my own. Then the depression came back worse than ever, and I became mentally and physically incapable of pulling myself through. My CPTSD and ADHD symptoms piled onto the pain.

I started a job while depressed, and tried to hang myself in the basement. I failed. Eventually, after weeks of panic attacks and suicidal ideation, I had to quit that job. I attempted to start my own business again so I could have the freedom to take time when I needed it, but it didn’t work.

After a couple of months of sulking, I started a new job while depressed. I was miserable the first few weeks, and desperately wanted to quit. Then, I loved it once I was back on my treatment program — but quit when I became manic and felt I heard a calling to a greater mission. I had done the same thing years before when I walked into my business one day on an emotional high and announced I was selling immediately to follow my dream of writing a book. I didn’t give the decision more than a couple of hours of thought, and I was positive that my life would be perfect from then on.

I didn’t work out the way I planned, but it has worked out. I’ve learned a lot about the madness I’ve lived with all my life, and I’m learning not to hate it as much. I’m forgiving myself for the crazy shit I’ve done, the Thanksgivings, and birthdays, and vacations that I’ve put a damper on. I’ve come to understand and forgive anyone that couldn’t take anymore of my mood swings, or constantly having to listen to me say I wanted to die.

Most importantly, I’ve come to realize that I’m not weak because I’ve been given these attributes. The rigidity of a conventional life and a conventional job don't work for me, and I'm done feeling like there's something wrong with me because of it. I live in emotional extremes a lot of the time, and it can be heaven or hell. The upside is, I won’t have to die to know how either one of them feels, and I’m sure I can handle them both.