It’s taken me a long time to admit that I’m perfectly imperfect, but just by typing all of this out I’m feeling quite liberated.
I received my diagnosis of bipolar II three years ago when I was 43. I don’t remember completely how my psychiatrist came to her conclusion as to what ailed me. I do, however, recall that she gave me a battery of tests that I dutifully filled out. Moments later was the “voila moment” .
“I understand how you’re feeling right now. I understand that you’re scared and unsure of what the future looks like to you. I understand that you feel lost. I understand that you feel vulnerable. But you’re still surviving. Isn’t it a miracle?”
I was taunted and bullied, had my hair pulled, my weight persistently shamed. It’s not easy growing up as a female when your appearance is a public ornament, open to ridicule or praise at all times.
When I was 17 years old, I tried to end my life. After my parents discovered a suicide note under my pillow, I started to receive the treatment that I so desperately needed; I was on medication and I was seeing a therapist on a regular basis, but this still wasn't enough.