the author in a hat


A lack of most expression.

Sadness is all that remains.

This attempts to keep me in chains.

I can’t easily get out of bed.

Racing thoughts run through my head.

I want negative thinking to leave for a while.

I have forgotten how to smile.

Everything is dull.

My mind and body pay the toll.


Extreme happiness and irritability arise.

I feel like every second is a prize.

I will not stop grinning.

Every second I am winning.

One thing goes wrong and my happiness is destroyed.

Anger is employed.

Everything seems great,

Yet still there remains a hint of hate.


This is how I act when I am fine.

Neither extreme has me aligned.

I process life with wise mind.

I am just me.

Bipolar symptoms do not control me.

Bipolar has no grip.

I still feel unsure of when my emotions will flip.

This is the nature of my bipolar brain.

I will not let this illness be my chain.

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When most students think of a “Dean of Students,” they typically focus solely on the “Dean” title: a person who is in a high administrative position, constantly in meetings and unapproachable. And if a student does meet with the Dean of Students, they feel as though they are being sent to the principal’s office, like they’ve done something wrong. It’s as if students forget their job is to focus on a campus’ students.

I have gotten to know our Dean of Students, Nicole*, quite well. Since it is a small school, that is not the only hat she wears. She’s a professor, program coordinator, advisor and my internship supervisor, among other positions she holds on campus. I know she is in a high administrative position and she frequently has meetings. I also know she’s not only highly approachable and available to students — but ready for this one?

She cares! 

I’ve experienced first-hand that Nicole is not like many I’ve interacted with, regardless of her job, when it comes to concerns regarding mental health and illnesses. A few weeks into the beginning of our semester, I became manic. At first, I liked it, as I always do. I was getting my work done quickly, everything was super clean and organized, I was extra hilarious, sarcastic and fun to hang out with, no filter in the classroom and I was always on the go.

Then it wasn’t going away: my body constantly moving, mind racing, talking fast and excessively, driving recklessly, jumping out of my skin, had thoughts to harm myself and I could barely eat or sleep, if at all. After much trial and error with medications to help, eventually we found a combination that worked and I came down from the mania. But then, all of a sudden, I crashed. I became gravely depressed and suicidal. After having therapy four out of the five days during one week, I made the decision to go inpatient to get stabilized.

Approximately 17 hours before I went for my evaluation, I met with Nicole as both my supervisor and advisor since it would affect my internship and academics. Though I wasn’t surprised, she was so kind and supportive and asked questions about inpatient. I was thankful for that conversation because most people don’t want to talk about it.

Despite the fact that she was surprised to learn it was going to be my seventh time inpatient since 2011, she still believed in me.

Throughout our conversation, she kept saying, “when you go for your PhD…” I said “Nicole you’re killing me with this doctorate thing! I don’t even have my masters!”

She looked me in the eyes and seriously said, “You’re very smart and have a lot of good insights. You know you have a lot of potential…you do know that, right?”  I answered back, “Sometimes.” Considering the circumstances, she replied, “Fair enough.”

I didn’t tell Nicole the full reason why I was going inpatient.

I didn’t tell her that if my psychologist didn’t call the second she did, I was planning on killing myself, and how the next morning in our session, she was nervous and scared because I was that hopeless.

I didn’t tell her that my counselor on campus did a risk assessment and almost didn’t let me leave her office.

I didn’t tell her that I wanted to kill myself, not because of depression, but because I was tired of fighting; my mind and body haven’t belonged to me since I was raped and it was time to end The 100 Year’s War.

I didn’t tell her I was thankful for our meeting and conversation that day because it went well and was something positive she would have to remember me by.

About two months have gone by since I was discharged.

I haven’t told her that our conversation could have been our last one. Now, I’m glad it wasn’t.

I haven’t told her that her willingness to listen, ask questions and converse with me was inspirational.

I haven’t told her that our meeting, approximately 17 hours before my evaluation, helped me to be even more determined to graduate in May, making that day less anxiety provoking, as that day marks the 10 year anniversary of my trauma — a day I never thought I’d make it to.

To Nicole, my campus’s Dean of Students, here is what I am telling you: Thank you for seeing me when I couldn’t and didn’t want to see myself. Thank you for breaking the barriers of stigma, and having an honest conversation instead of a judgmental one. Thank you for not feeling sorry for me and seeing my strength and resiliency. Thank you for giving me a reason to continue on and be able to envision a future…a future I now want.

Thank youthank you, thank you for giving me hope.

*Name has been changed.

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

If you or a loved one is affected by sexual abuse or assault and need help, call the National Sexual Assault Telephone Hotline at 1-800-656-4673 to be connected with a trained staff member from a sexual assault service provider in your area.

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Image via Christina Marie

I have really good days with my bipolar disorder. Most days, I’m cheerful and happy. I sing and dance, I smile and laugh, and I enjoy my life during those moments. But then, I have bad days, too. Everybody has bad days, but “bipolar bad days” can be very different. I also have “stable” bad days, don’t get me wrong. But my “bipolar bad days” are so out of my control, and it’s frustrating.

For me, bad bipolar days are getting anxiety over the smallest tasks — the same tasks it takes my husband five minutes to do once he takes over. That, in turn, makes me feel incompetent, even though he genuinely does not want me to feel that way. Feeling incompetent makes me break down in tears, sobbing that “I just want to be normal.” I don’t want to have to take an anti-anxiety pill when I feel overwhelmed. I don’t want to have to take a pill every single morning. And every single night. I just want to be a regular ol’ person!

Lucky for me, I have a husband who looks at me and ever so sweetly says, “You don’t feel good today. I can tell,” and takes control in a calm and reassuring manner. I firmly believe he has no idea how incredible that moment was for me. He probably has no idea it felt so good to, for once, not be the one to say I’m not feeling my best. I felt understood and loved by one single sentence he probably thought was nothing at all.

It took me 25 minutes of sitting on the floor with sweaty palms, heart racing, hands shaking, and a hard, “fighting back tears” kind of lump in my throat to even start what it took him five minutes to complete.

Just in case you’re wondering, we are redoing the fabric on the valences in our RV. Sounds simple right? Not to my overwhelmed, anxious self on a “bipolar bad day.”

Image via Contributor.

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The other night, I was talking with a friend about what we’re currently going through in life. We do this from time to time, and it’s always beneficial. This time, though, amidst our discussion, I brought up the fact that I was thinking about running away, from home, from people, from life. Now, thanks to a single person in my life, this is no longer my plan.

How did I get to that point, though? It was not a thought that came to me suddenly, but rather a thought that had been festering in my brain for a couple weeks. I was ready to act on it, too. Put some gas in the car, throw my duffel bag in the backseat, turn on a CD and take off. I wasn’t thinking about where I would go or even how I planned to live once my money ran out, but I was ready to go.

The thing about my bipolar disorder is this: When I hit a downswing, I withdraw from life. It’s what I’ve done in the past, and it’s still what I do to this day.

How does that help, though? You may ask. Well, it doesn’t. In fact, it’s probably the worst thing I could do for myself in a given situation, but I do it all the same.

You see, when I hit that depressive episode, my thoughts become negative, and it’s hard to ignore them. I tell myself that if my friends wanted to hang out with me, then they would ask. Why do I have to be the one who always asks? Does anyone even care?

This line of thinking leads down a dark path of isolation that I have walked down many, many times. A path that has led to multiple suicide attempts and the loss of friends, who simply moved on. Yet, I never do anything different.

Say what you will about my brain, but at least it’s consistent. When I start that downswing into a full on depressive episode, my rational mind seems to be shoved to the back of my brain and remains quiet.

Do I know that I’m isolating myself? Yes. Do I know that my friends care about me? Of course. I just don’t know how to convince myself that those answers are true.

So what can we do to help others who are in a similar fix? Talk with them. Reach out, and see what they’re doing that night or for lunch. People like me, who isolate themselves when we fall into these holes, need to hear that you care.

The answer seems so simple, but we tend to get lost in our own thoughts and minds. When my friend and I have a talk or I go to therapy, my thoughts of running away or hurting myself seem to evaporate. It’s as if the mere presence and support of a friend is enough to light up the whole darkness of my mind and send those deceitful thoughts back to the abyss, at least for a little while.

The point I’m trying to make is this: We have so much power in our hands that we don’t use. It’s time to start using our power to help others. Reach out to your friend having a tough week, and let them know you’re there and you care about them. A simple sentence can go a long way.

I’m a big fan of “The West Wing.” Here’s a parable from the show that has gone a long way in my life: “This guy’s walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can’t get out. A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, “Hey you. Can you help me out?” The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on.

Then, a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, “Father, I’m down in this hole. Can you help me out?” The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on.

Then, a friend walks by, “Hey, Joe. It’s me. Can you help me out?” And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, “Are you stupid? Now we’re both down here.” The friend says, ‘Yeah, but I’ve been down here before, and I know the way out.’”

The holidays can be a tough time for you or your friends. All I ask is that you reach out to those of us who are struggling to remind us we are not alone. A little bit can go a long way. As always, remember that you are not alone. Reach out for help if you need it.

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 or text “START” to 741-741.

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 Image via Thinkstock.

I was just a week out of the mental hospital for suicidal ideation when you said it.

“No mother who truly loves her children would ever think of killing herself.”

I’m sure you meant well. Maybe you were thinking you were the first one to ever voice such a thought, that perhaps such a radical idea might shake me out of my destructive pathways.

You were wrong.

Instead, your words destroyed my newly-burgeoning sense of well-being. My optimism, already fragile, quavered and began to crumble.

You see, I respect you. I love you. I have nothing but good will towards you. I only wish I could convey to you the depth of how wrong you are.

I love my children with all the power of my fractured heart. I would gladly throw myself in front of a bullet or fight a bear with my bare hands for any one of them. They usually keep my feet firmly grounded to the earth; they are my reason for being and my all in all.

But sometimes, you see, the thoughts in my head begin to spiral. They’d all be better off without you, they whisper. You are only screwing up their lives. Soon, they no longer whisper. They scream and shout, day and night. I begin to believe them. They’ll be stronger without you! They’ll move on and be happier!

The most recent time this began to happen, and when I began to contemplate the best way to make it happen, I recognized it as a very dangerous sign. I knew the voices were false; I just didn’t know how to make them stop. So I committed myself to the hospital in the hope I could be safe and feel better.

Fortunately, it worked. I do feel better. I was moving forward.

Until your comment.

It took a supreme amount of willpower to prevent myself from going to a very dark place after your words, but I managed to do it. For this, I thank a stellar support group and proper medication.

Mental illness is not a choice. No one makes the decision to have it, or any disease. I recognize that I have a mental illness, bipolar disorder. This can make me susceptible to drastic mood swings and irrational thinking.

Maybe you’re one of those who has the luxury of believing such a diagnosis is bunk, that psychology is a farcical science. If you are, then we haven’t much more to say to each other. For both of our sakes and the sakes of our precious families, let’s strive to understand one another instead. I only want to educate and inform.

I hope you can find it in your heart to listen.

Image via Thinkstock.

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 or text “START” to 741-741.

Follow this journey on Crazy. Real.

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Dear Me,

I know you’ve been through a lot in the short amount of time you’ve been on this earth. You’ve endured more than many adults experience in a lifetime. I know you’re keeping secrets, and I know you’re scared and confused. It’s OK for you to feel that way. It’s OK to have a bad day or many bad days; you’re allowed. Please know I am not trying to scare you when I say you’re going to have a lot of bad days.

Unfortunately, what they’ve just diagnosed you with isn’t going to go away, and it’s not just some phase you’re going through. You have an illness, kind of like the way diabetes is an illness. It’s just that yours is an illness of the mind and is often highly unpredictable. Now you know you have bipolar disorder. I guess that explains a lot.

You will be forced to deal with this for the rest of your life, and I need you to be prepared for that and try not to panic. It can be managed; you just have a lot of work to do. The first thing I’m going to tell you is to stop locking yourself in your room listening to the same painful songs over and over again. It’s not going to get you anywhere.

Don’t isolate yourself from the outside world so much that when you finally venture out, you’ll date any guy who looks at you twice. Try to stay away from dating until your illness is more under control. Remember that when a man does break your heart, it’s going to feel like your whole life has collapsed. We feel things deeper; it comes with the territory.

Sometimes all you can do is sleep, and sometimes you won’t sleep for days. Give yourself some time to adjust to your diagnosis. We all handle it differently. Don’t ever criticize yourself for taking care of the most important person here – you.

You may see doctor after doctor and try what will seem like 1,000 medications, but in between all of the bullshit, there will be good times. Your life is not over; it’s just beginning.

I just need you to be ready for what you’re about to do. You’re going to attempt to win the battle inside your brain every single day. Watch your step. There are pitfalls along the path for people like us. Just be honest with people. Tell them the truth from the start. That way you won’t have grown close to them if they exit stage left.

The worst part about being diagnosed with a mental illness is the ignorance you’ll face daily. There will be people who walk out of your life or treat you like trash because you have an illness — one you didn’t ask for or contract. It’s just how you’re wired. Some people may never understand or even believe no matter how hard you try to explain it to them

Don’t let their ignorance tear you down, and don’t let them get to you. You have enough work to do just fighting the negative voices in your head. You will struggle, there is no question about that. Sometimes it will feel like all you ever do is get hurt. That is when it is easiest to give up, but you can’t do that. Not now. Not ever.

Please, whatever you do, don’t try to hurt yourself in any way. You may feel alone at times, but you are never truly alone in this fight. If family members can’t help, try friends or anyone you trust. Purposely being alone just to sit there and cry about how lonely you are is counterproductive. When you feel up to it, make a list of things you enjoy doing so when you stumble into that abyss, you’ve left yourself a breadcrumb path to find your way back out.

Always remember you’re only having a bad day. You do not have a bad life. Despite your struggles, there will be moments where you shine! And you’ll learn to appreciate those moments even more because you have fought hard to get there.

You can do this. I’ve witnessed it first-hand. There will be times when you want to give up. Unfortunately, at times the pain will seem unbearable, and it will get to you no matter how strong you think you are. Always remember, there will be a light around the corner. You just have to follow the path to get to it.

I am so proud of you. You admitted you have an illness that many people are still embarrassed by. You are going to go on and do great things! You’re going to figure out a way to turn the tables on your disability and use it to help people. I know patience isn’t your strong suit, but it won’t be long. You’re so young, just be 19-year-old first. You’re going need a little time to figure yourself out.

You’ve got quite an uphill battle in front of you. You won’t have all the answers, but in time you will learn what works for you and what doesn’t. Don’t compare your illness to someone else. Your journey will be completely different. When you’re more self-aware, your bad days will only amplify the good. You can do this. It will be a struggle, but if you weren’t a fighter, you wouldn’t be here now. I’ll be here waiting. You’ve got this.



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

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

Thinkstock photo by tormento79

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