Going into adulthood, I carried that sense of being an outcast, like I didn’t belong anywhere. I felt as if I were damaged goods and that everyone could see the warning label. I distanced myself from my sister, brother, and struggled with developing long-lasting relationships.The fear of losing someone else I loved was so great that I’d rather keep my distance before getting hurt like that again.
My diagnosis came after many years of battling something I could only feel. After a series of self-inflicted harm, hospitalizations, and destroying everything around me,I knew I needed help before something worse would happen. My official diagnosis was Bipolar Disorder and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I was relieved to know that what I was going through had a name and began learning about my illness. For a while, I was on medication, and when I was finally stable the psychiatrist told me that I was considered a high-functioning person with Bipolar and PTSD, and that I could attempt to manage my symptoms and episodes on my own without medication if I was alert to the triggers.
Soon the sense of relief of knowing what I had dissipated, and it quickly turned into shame. I felt inadequate and that the “damaged” label was fitting. I found it hard to explain, and when I did, it made others feel uncomfortable. I remember telling the guy I was dating at the time about my diagnosis, and he quickly told me that I shouldn’t tell people because they would view me differently. Needless to say that relationship did not last very long. But what he said remained stuck on replay in my head, and so back I went into hiding, pretending everything was ok.