I Won't Let Bipolar Disorder Claim My Life


I’ve tried to kill myself more times than I can count – more times than I care to remember. And with each attempt, a part of me did die.

In one instance, I almost did die. I was hooked to a heart monitor for ages, and through the drug-induced fog, I could see the fear in the doctor’s eyes as he drew arterial blood, his movements urgent, frustration creasing his brow, telling me my blood pH was dropping dangerously. I remember the nurse seemed disgusted with me. She treated me with shame. Until she realized no visitors were coming to see me. That no one was coming to collect me. Then she knew. That was a long time ago.

I still remember the bars on the small window in the psychiatric hospital I was relegated to. I remember the polished steel screwed to the wall of the bathroom. No glass. Glass breaks.

I’ve tried to kill myself more times than I can count – and in no way, shape or form, did I ever want to die. I’ve never wanted to die. I’ve only ever wanted to be cured. To be rid of this illness, this hijacking of my brain, this disease called bipolar disorder. Some days I just couldn’t take it anymore. It was like stepping into a fire, over and over and
over.

After the last hospitalization, I remember how destroyed I felt. How I felt like a part of me was stripped away. And I remember, through my tears, confessing to my husband that I was terrified I’d die long before him. That I’d leave him a widower for decades. I closed my eyes and saw him wandering through the hallways of our home, photographs of our wedding day long ago coated in dust. I saw him alone.

And the real fear set in, far more terrifying than that heart monitor, more terrifying than the doctor’s urgency. More terrifying than the bars on my window or the girl in the next room screaming in the middle of the night. More agonizing than the constant cycle of emotions. More painful than my own pain. Seeing him alone.

I saw him at my funeral. I saw how broken he’d be. How hard it would be for him to move on. How at night, alone in our bed, he’d cry for me, the wife he left behind in the graveyard.

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I still live with that fear. But it is that fear of seeing the smile gone from his face that keeps me fighting. Because I know he fights with me. All my loved ones fight with me because life without me would be too unbearable, too difficult, too lonely for them. I know what I mean to the people who love me.

So, whenever I feel like it’s all too much, it’s all too painful, when my energy is sapped from me, I tell them how I feel. I tell my husband I’m not doing well. I tell my best friend I need to reach out. And I let them love me. It doesn’t always make me happy again, but it brings me back from the brink.

I know I won’t back down. I know I won’t let this illness claim my life. I know I will keep fighting. And I know I have to keep fighting for them.

Because I’m a fighter.

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.
If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

Image via Thinkstock.

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