My name is Robert and I'm 30 years old. I am a divorced father of two boys and I have bipolar disorder. For most of my life, as far back as I can remember I have suffered with this condition. I went years without a diagnosis or treatment. Just accepting that this was who I was. I battled the severe ups and downs never finding the courage to seek help. When I was manic I could do anything. Ideas flew around in my head, my thoughts raced, I would go days with little to no sleep. When I was depressed I would shut down. Cut myself off from the rest of the world. I had to force myself to get out of bed. The idea of even going to the store was stressful. I would put myself into a panic thinking about having to be around people. And so this went for years. Then I started to self medicate. Prescription pain pills was what I became dependent on. Taking them at first to help me sleep and calm me down when I was manic. And it worked. I felt good. Eventually I was taking these pills all the time. I'd take them first thing in the morning when I got up, I'd take them when I got to work, I'd take them throughout the day. In my mind the pills made me normal. I was a better person by taking them. But I was wrong, very wrong.
My marriage was falling apart, my performance at work suffered, my relationships with other people became strained. I had become so dependent on the pain killers I stopped caring about anyone or anything else. I was making terrible decisions. And eventually I would pay a big price for the choices I was making. In September of 2008 I was arrested on drug trafficking charges. I spent 3 years in prison and was released in September of 2011. During that time my wife left me, and we would eventually get divorced. After my release I thought if I could make it through everything that happened there was nothing I couldn't do. I was manic again. There was all these things I felt I needed to do. I had missed out on 3 years of life so I was entitled to make up for lost time. I bought a car, I bought clothes, I bought shoes, and jewelry. I spent money like it was never going to run out. I enrolled in college, I was working, and I was staying out all night. I was full of energy soaring high. But then I crashed. I lost my self esteem and I lost the energy I had. I started doubting everything I was doing. I quit school, I quit my job, and I cut myself off from everyone again. The depression was taking over. But I still didn't get help. Instead I started self medicating again. Taking pills to numb the feelings I had. Thoughts of suicide and death were taking over my mind. And then I ran out of pain pills. I remember laying in bed my whole body hurting, sick from withdrawals. I was desperate to stop this horrible agony I was in. So I went to the emergency room. They gave me medication to stop the nausea, calmed me down, and sent me on my way. It was then I decided I needed help.
The first doctor I saw recommended I get drug abuse treatment. I lasted one day and didn't go back. In my mind it was stupid. I didn't need a twelve step program or narcotics anonymous. I didn't want to listen to these peoples stories because they didn't understand how I felt. So my depression worsened. And eventually I went to another doctor. His diagnosis, I had depression. I was put on an antidepressant, which I took for two weeks and stopped because I didn't like the side effects. I was given another antidepressant, one I was told has less side effects. I took that one for about a month, and started feeling better. Much better. So I did what many people do when they start to feel better, I stopped taking the medicine. That would prove to have dangerous results. I was having difficulty sleeping again, I was thinking about suicide, I was tired of feeling this way. Tired of the constant ups and downs I was experiencing. The people close to me were becoming concerned about how I was acting, and encouraged me to go back to the doctor. My physician felt I was a danger to myself and gave me an ultimatum, either I voluntarily go to a mental health facility or he would involuntarily commit me. So I agreed to go. I spent three days there. The psychiatrist who treated me diagnosed me with having bipolar disorder and put me on antidepressants and anti-psychotics and recommended I see a psychiatrist for further treatment. Eventually, after pleas from my family I did.
I sat in the psychiatrists office answered a series of questions, gave her family medical histories, described the feelings I was having, how long this had been going on, and what prior treatments I had. Her diagnosis confirmed what the mental health facility told me, I had bipolar manic depression with rapid cycling. Her recommendation was Celexa for depression and Seroquel to stabilize my mood and help me sleep. And they worked. My sleep improved, I became more level headed. I was actually feeling better. But then due to a miscommunication between myself and the pharmacy I ran out of my medication. The medical facility I get treated at mails out medications to your home. I wasn't keeping track of my medications like I should have and ran out before I could get a refill. For almost two weeks I had gone without the Seroquel and I would learn the hard way how bad it is to just stop taking the medication. I remember laying in bed thinking how much easier it would be to die. In my head I was just a burden to everyone else. I was never going to get better and there was no point in trying to to. My mind was an absolute mess. Suicide became all I thought about. Did I call my doctor and tell her how I was feeling? No. I told no one. I thought I could hold out until my refills came in the mail but the overwhelming thoughts of death became debilitating. I couldn't take it anymore. I was looking up on the internet ways to kill myself. It was all I thought about. I needed some relief from this, I wanted to die.
I was able to get my hands on a bottle of Klonopin and in my mind it seemed like the perfect way to die. Just go to sleep and not wake up. No pain, no suffering, just quiet and peaceful. My memory of the events after I took the Klonopin is very little. Most of what I know has been told to me by other people. Apparently my girlfriend found me lying half on half off the couch. Bottles and pills everywhere. I was breathing but not responsive. The police came, then the paramedics. I was taken to the hospital and put in a room with an orderly outside to keep an eye on me. I remember waking up not knowing where I was or what was going on. I got out of the bed, walked out of the room, and tried to leave the hospital. I was quickly met by hospital security and brought back to my room. Then I tired to leave again. This time I put up a fight. Security had to tackle me to the ground and I was then put in arm restraints. But I wasn't done yet. I was able to undue the restraints using my teeth and make another escape attempt. Security stopped me again, and this time I was restrained with one arm over my head, one arm to the bed, and my legs restrained as well. Finally I gave up the fight. The next memory I have is waking up in a bed at a mental health facility. I was confused and disorientated, the Klonopin still in my system. Slowly I started to become more coherent. I don't remember much about my stay at the mental health facility. My mom and my girlfriend would come and visit me. I attended group therapy sessions, saw a psychiatrist, and a mental health counselor. My diagnosis; Bipolar I manic depression with most recent psychotic episode. I was placed back on the Celexa and Seroqul. It was here in the mental health facility that I finally understood how bad off I had become. It was frightening and eye opening. I realized that I needed help, I needed to stay on the medication, and I needed to open up and be honest with my doctors. It was the only way I was going to get better. I didn't want to die, I actually wanted to live. My condition improved and the doctor felt that I was well enough to go home. I left the facility on September 10, 20013. I'm thankful to be alive. I'm lucky too. My battle with bipolar disorder continues, but now I have the ability to manage it. I finally feel like I can start a new chapter in my life.
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