"I am not Bipolar"

by Alexia Woodall, Age 18

My name is Alexia Woodall, and I am not Bipolar, I have Bipolar. Bipolar Depression type II to be exact. I remember a time not so long ago, give or take a year before being the way I am today. I wasn’t special. I did nothing wrong. There was no karmic justice in play for me to be this way. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared and that I’m always optimistic. It’s been a battle. A battle that occurs every week, every day, every second within my mind.

I am accustomed to swimming the waves of depression and climbing the peaks of hypomania, and then repeating this monthly, weekly, sometimes even daily. The waves come and flood my senses with, pain, grief, intrusive thoughts, and a reassurance that I am everything I wish I wasn’t. The heights of hypomania give me altitude sickness. I can’t think clearly or deeply. I get caught in intense irritability and irrationality that pulls me into a mirage, a dopamine cycle based on bad decisions, but the worst part is– I can’t even tell that they’re bad.

I could tell you the countless days I've cried, unsure if I have a future or if I wanted one anymore. I could tell you the countless days I've burnt relationships, violated my personality, and hurt the people I love most. I could tell you the countless times people have given up on me and told me I am unloveable. That I’m better off dead. I wish I could explain my condition in a way where you feel my pain, but I wouldn’t want you to. The hypomania, the depression, the rejection, and emotional deflection. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. I do not wish to be viewed upon and one day known as “That’s Alexia, she’s Bipolar.” I believe that is the shared nightmare of every person who has struggled with mental illness, to be diminished and remembered as a caricature of our struggles. The pain comes and the pain goes but the doors I’ve closed to many important people in my life never open out of fear. The fear of being diminished, being abandoned, being a burden, or worst of all, not being understood.

Misunderstanding is the nature of my illness–of all mental illness. The stigmatism of mental health disorders I believe isn’t from awareness, but a lack of empathy. In their nature, they are irrationalities of the brain and chemical imbalances. Many people cannot understand the severity of living with mental health challenges because they cannot put themselves in our place. In a gross way, our conditions are a magic trick, but our illusion–the tunnel vision, the hopelessness, the helplessness, the pain, the consequences–are all too real, and it is hard, sometimes impossible to see the truth.

The truth is, always there is light. To the people with loved ones struggling with mental illness. You are not a failure. Have patience. Patience, because you know there is a light that exists, even if they cannot see it. Patience, that every day they are alive they are trying. Patience, that even if they let go, it’s not yourself to blame. Even if you cannot understand their pain, ensure they know you love them. Love is your best effort. Love is the greatest soother of pain. If you love or have loved them, and made that love known, then you never have failed.

At the end of the day, no matter how much I wish I could be cured, it won’t happen. But that isn’t a bad thing. Mental health issues aren’t something to be ashamed of or categorized in a box to hide in the attic of our hearts. They’re pieces to the puzzles of our minds and personality. Puzzles that are ours to put together and show the picture, not for others to question and assume when they can’t see the finished picture.

There will be bad days. Days in which we diminish ourselves down to just an illness. Days in which we lose hope in what and who we love because we see ourselves as shells. Days in which our illness can claim our life. But in the words of Shane Koyzcan, “Every nightmare has a beginning, but every bad day has an end.”

I am not the same person I was a year ago, but I am not a shell of my former self. I have struggles. I have pain. I have pills that I take to help with my problems. I have bad days, days in which the world weighs on me with impossible despair, but through the darkest clutches of my condition, I have hope. My Bipolar changes me, I won’t pretend it doesn’t, but it is a part of me. A part of me I love unconditionally because it makes me the resilient, intelligent, and worthy person I am today. I am not just a mental illness. I am Alexia Woodall, I am not Bipolar, I have Bipolar.

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Congratulations to Alexia for winning SECOND PLACE in the Written/Audio Category of the 2022 Share Your Story Contest!