I was a superwoman until I was her “villain.”

By: Taylor

It is so hard to be the odd one out. I’m what most would consider “normal” on the outside, but one to run away from on the inside. I suffer from bipolar disorder and major depressive disorder, which I like to call my worst friend but my best accomplishment. Most individuals around me don’t know that I am diagnosed with two mental illnesses, but I am ready to spread awareness and show the world that I, just like you, am a good person. Please don’t run away from me.

I grew up in one of the cutest parts of the country, Laguna Beach. My family? Wonderful. Loving. Caring. The type of people to do anything for anyone with not a single question asked. If my mother were hit by a car, she would likely blame herself rather than the driver. That is the type of empathy I grew up around.

In third grade, I began having these temper tantrums (as my mother and father liked to call them) for reasons that many would hardly bat an eye at. For example, my dad wouldn’t let me stay after school for this after-school program that my elementary school offered. When I got in the car, I was so outraged I began screaming at my father and kicking the vehicle's dashboard. I felt like I was going to burst. Later that night, I felt excellent. I hadn’t yet put a name on what was going on.

I started feeling like I was on top of the world for days at a time. I could accomplish things in such a manner that I felt like I could take on a million activities at once. I was manic at these moments or periods. I felt like I could become an author, an artist, an award-winning movie star. This is the level of euphoria I would feel. I was a superwoman until I was her “villain.” I would crash. I would crumble. I would scream and threaten to disown my family or become emancipated if they didn’t do something the way I intended for it to be done.

My parents figured that something wasn’t exactly— “right” with my personality. We went to see a doctor who patiently sat with me for hours, conducting tests and asking me questions. The doctor diagnosed me with a mental illness, and then another one. Instantly I was terrified. I felt like a real-life movie villain.

I was prescribed medication and began to function at a more stable level. I had eventually reached a baseline, but I was still utterly ashamed of this secret identity I hid from my friends. I knew if they found out I was “crazy,” they would think of me differently (or so I assumed). After all, wasn’t the joker bipolar? Isn’t every sociopath mentally ill?

I wish I could give the old Taylor a huge hug. I wish I could tell her everything she was thinking at that time was so incredibly wrong. I wish I could tell her how she wasn’t a bad person and had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. I wish I could convince her of how extraordinary she indeed was. I feel in pain when I think of my old, scared self. The stigma had utterly consumed me, and for anyone else out there in the same place I once was in, I want to hug you too. I want to hold your hand.

My friends are all aware of my mental health. My boyfriend is too. They all love and support me deeply and treat me the way any human should be treated: like a normal fucking person walking down the street.

I work at a PR company in downtown LA. I swim in the ocean with my mom and ride the waves. I hang out with my close friends at this cute little taco shop, and we love their skinny margs. I went to an incredible school and am so lucky to be alive. I am just like you.