The short story

The short story is that I was brutally rejected by my family when I came out as a lesbian at age 19. In retrospect, I think I had a somewhat reasonable reaction to complete loss of my only support system, but that reaction was labeled “bipolar disorder” and I was heavily drugged for 9 years.  I was never hospitalized. 

 

After many years of hard work, I am completely off of meds (since Nov 22, 2006), reconciled with my family, married to a supportive partner with whom I parent our young toddler.  My psychiatrist released me from her care well over a year ago, without any concerns.  My therapist and I parted ways, since in both of our estimations, I’m fine.  She had long since stopped billing for me under the “bipolar” label.  

 

That said, damage from my diagnosis and years of medication remains.  I have a lingering borderline low white blood cell count, caused by 8 years on Tegretol.  My medical record makes it nearly impossible to purchase life insurance.  My diagnosis provided a framework in which all of my emotions were pathologized, by doctors, by friends and family, but most painfully, by myself.  For almost a decade, I was never sad; I was depressed.  I was never happy; I was manic.  A good day was a day on which I felt nothing.   

 

I have considered making my story public for some time, inspired by the writings of Gianna at Bipolar Blast, and Philip Dawdy at Furious Seasons.  I’ve held back for many reasons.  I have concerns around anonymity, and to be honest, I enjoy the world I inhabit now, where most people I interact with don’t know my history.  What finally prompted me to set aside my hesitation was a recent reading of medical records from my early treatment.  As I read, I realized how much had happened, how much I have changed, how complicit I was in such a damaging process and how profoundly ill-served I was by those charged with providing my care.  Stories like the one I read from my own records are probably quite common, stories of reaching out for help, initially feeling relieved to have found an answer but then waking up years later to find you are heavily overmedicated and trapped, with no clear escape route.  I’d like to use this as a space to pick apart some of the threads of this story, to make my experience public so others might know it is possible to get out, and to make connections with people who have made or hope to make similar escapes, withdrawals and recoveries.