Ditching Denial
Elizabeth’s Story
My name is Elizabeth. Some of you may be familiar with my last name after reading this, but I chose to keep it anonymous. I hope that one day I can use my last name and become comfortable with telling my story as the “real” Elizabeth. For now, I hope you enjoy. I want to help you find hope and find self love.
When I was twelve my parents brought me to a psychiatrist. They became worried when I cut the word Love All into my wrist. This wasn’t me trying to self harm, I just felt the need to give myself a “clear tattoo.” I don’t really remember why I chose to do this, but I do remember feeling this euphoric impulse and deciding that I would do it without any contemplation or serious consideration. The psychiatrist shrugged it off after I explained that I was in no way trying to hurt myself, even though the position of the cut (on my wrist) was an awful coincidence.
When I was thirteen my parents took me back to the psychiatrist. This time it was because I had cut a slit into my arm. It wasn’t a tattoo, and I wasn’t overwhelmed with a “high” or impulsive euphoria. I was overwhelmed with sadness, loneliness, but most of all anger. The anger is what drove my impulsive decision to do this. It wasn’t like anyone of anything triggered the anger. It just came on, and I didn’t understand why. I was suddenly in such a low mood and place. I began hating my life, but then my mood would swoop back up and I would want to do something like call a relative out of the blue. I would walk around feeling like the world was mine. I felt invincible. I felt the need to just be kind. I donated to organizations and emailed teachers about how great I thought the class was or they were. This never lasted. I would fall right back into my horribly depressed and frightening mood. There were literally two Elizabeth’s.
My psychiatrist diagnosed me with bipolar disorder. I was going into high school, and he suggested I take a medication that would keep my moods stable. I had this awful fear of taking medicine, and my parents were completely against it. We told them that I was not going to take it, and instead see a therapist weekly. This was my first mistake, that lead me to the nightmare I lived in for years.
When I started high school I immediately fell into the wrong crowd. As freshman we were attending “drug parties” where it was almost a competition of who could get more inebriated. I would down shots and it would be fine. I would return home and go to school and for a while it was fine. The therapy was helping, but I did still experience the highs and lows. I hadn’t self harmed since the previous event, and I had started taking yoga and practicing meditation.
Halfway through my freshman year I was offered cocaine at a party. My best friend at the time said “let’s just do it!” I had never heard of what coke made you feel like, and there was something intriguing and bad ass about the word and the act of snorting the white powder out of a 100$ bill. I tried it, and the high it brought me too was absolutely insane. I was chatting with everyone at the party. I was dancing, I was jumping up and down with this excitement that I had never felt before, I called my mom and told her that I was going to start my own company. I was the highest I had ever been. The next morning I woke up and cut myself in the bathtub. I attempted to take my life. I had never felt so low in my entire life. It was the absolute polar opposite of how I felt the night before. If I had thought my highs and lows were bad in the past, this was a whole different level of insanity. I refused to take medicine. I refused to get help. I continued to do cocaine and drink.
I was at the highest of all time. I was on top of the world. My bipolar disorder combined with my coke lifestyle was the perfect amount of what I like to call “disguised pain.” It lead me to a place I never want to go back to. Worse than hell. Self love was not in my vocabulary. This was more than just a combination of drugs and alcohol. Bipolar disorder was also thrown in the mix, and at that point in my life I didn’t care enough about myself to work on myself or help myself...and I would never dare reach out for help. I was in complete denial and had almost lost touch with reality.
The last straw was when my parents finally saved me. Two men were hired to take me from my bed in the middle of the night, put me in a mini van, and bring me to the airport. I was put on a plane and flown to Utah. This was the most hellish experience I can describe to you, but it helped me in every way imaginable. Let me try to describe the program to you. There was no town in site. I had no idea where I was. I had no idea how long I was going to stay. The minimum stay was two months and the maximum stay was a year. I was terrified. I attempted to run away, but quickly went back on my plan since I would be running into a dense forest and probably die or almost die like the girl in that Stephen King novel. There was a tarp that we each had and sort of huddled under. People were crying. I was crying. I cried almost every day until I reached the one month mark. I remember begging the leaders to let me go home. I remember thinking in my head that they would let me. I felt so hopeless. There was nothing I could do to get out of there except get the help I needed. We hiked daily. The scariest thing I ever heard was “Elizabeth, you’re staying here for another month.” I heard that three times. I kept thinking that I was better and that I could go home, but my parents and therapist refused to allow me. I was put on a mood stabilizer which ultimately was one of my biggest saviors.
I think my biggest savior was accepting the fact that I had bipolar disorder and letting myself love and accept me. I met friends who also had bipolar disorder and simply talking to them helped me realize that this was truly something that many people struggle with. I want to emphasize that you can live with Bipolar disorder and be a completely happy and loved person. There is this awful stigma that surrounds bipolar disorder, and mental health in general, that we are “weird” or “crazy.” The main reason I went to an intensive wilderness program was because I was abusing alcohol and drugs. Through the program, friends that I meant, medicine, and therapy, I realized that this was something I could live with and that I shouldn’t be ashamed of. The coke and alcohol I have been out of my life for years. Some people can handle alcohol on medication, which is highly not advised and even dangerous, but some can’t. Some choose not to drink at all on medication. I’m one of those people. I think that with drug and alcohol problems people should know that there are so many who love them and that there is so much hope and potential for them. Denial is a very real disease. There is so much hope and love and you will be okay. With mental health there is also a support system behind you. We as a society truly need to have these conversations and make people feel welcomed and not ashamed.
