This time three years ago, to the untrained eye, I had lost my mind entirely.
To a professional or a fellow patient, I was just in the depths of Bipolar Disorder.
To me, well, the only thing I could think about was my own demise.
Every day was spent in literal darkness.
Every moment, spent hating my own existence. Cursing it. Plotting it’s end.
I was so completely depressed that I was bedridden. I could barely move; numb with pain – both emotional and physical.
My thoughts were as negative as they could possibly get.
I was so very, sadly, paranoid. I hallucinated that people were coming to get my nightly. So I didn’t sleep. I never slept by night, only day, providing I could drift off into a light slumber.
Fight or flight mode was my entire life. Even when I slept.
My dreams were riddled with nightmares and being awake was like being in one too.
I was unmedicated, untreated, and losing myself very quickly.
Three years ago, I genuinely, truly, believed I was going to die.
And I didn’t.
I kept going. I fought the most difficult fight that I’ve ever had to face.
And though I have my ups and downs still to this day, I can proudly say that I beat my mental breakdown.