Starting Over Better
Some people say everything happens for a reason. I say this sentiment is reductionist bullshit. Some things just happen. One minute, you’re a champion mother/attorney/wife/all-around doer of things, the next you’re face down in the front seat of your car cry-screaming through your third panic attack in six months.
There is no reason, in the sense of justification, for the onset of a mental illness. There may be genetic, biological, and psychosocial theories about such onset, but there is no justification. And theories are just that, theories.
There is no medical consensus as to how exactly a person comes to have bipolar disorder while another person does not. However, most practitioners recognize there is an element of chance, a roll of the dice factor that cannot be found out or guarded against. Basically, they agree: “shit happens.” And that shit can break you. It almost broke me. But here I am, alive, still married, with three kids, and still trying to figure out exactly what has happened and what will continue to happen as I move forward in life with this new partner, bipolar disorder.
I am a late bloomer mental-illness wise. Or, perhaps, just a late diagnosis. The jury is still out on that one, which is funny because I used to be an attorney and do things like deal with juries but not so much these days, since I never know exactly who I’m going to be when I wake up in the morning. All that aside, the important fact is that I lived most of my adult life under the apparently mistaken belief that I had major depressive disorder. From ages 18 to 38, with the help of my friend the SSRI, I graduated at the top of my class in college and in law school, clerked for a judge, passed three bar exams in four years, worked for a fancy private law firm, and then fled back to my beloved public sector. I got married, bought a house and a car, paid off my student loans, and had a kid. Things were going pretty much according to (someone’s) plan.
Then, my partner and I decided to have a second child. But something wasn’t working right. We tried again, and again. We tried four IUIs (think turkey baster) in all. On the fourth, our doctor required the use of injectable hormones and our signatures on a multiples waiver (i.e. document waiving our right to be mad, legally, if we ended up with more than one baby). I held my breath, crossed my fingers, and convinced myself we would not get pregnant with multiples. I had suffered six months of severe postpartum anxiety following the birth of our first child. I sincerely believed having more than one child at once would break me. And, in a way, it did.
Our twins were born in August 2015. Approximately one month later, I was an incoherent mass of anxiety, hyperactivity, depression, and fear. It took a year for me to finally let go of the brass ring, leave my job, and check myself into treatment. In the meantime, I spent that year having extreme, rapid-cycling mood episodes with panic attacks sprinkled throughout (usually in my parking garage before work on Monday mornings). Still, nobody, not me, one of my family members, or one of my (many) medical professionals, questioned my current diagnosis or medication regime.
Imagine my surprise (and relief and anger) when I was diagnosed with bipolar 2 disorder immediately upon entering IOP (intensive outpatient treatment). Within a week of starting Lithium, I stopped crying for the first time in ever. I honestly couldn’t remember going a day without tears streaming down my face. Of course, the IOP wasn’t perfect, and my medication management after I left treatment was particularly poor. Thankfully, I finally found my way to some really, really good doctors who are helping me to feel like myself again. I am also learning useful things like (a) taking care of myself is a good life lesson for my children and (b) asking may partner to pick up the parts of our lives I can’t carry right now is a perfectly reasonable request.
I pride myself on finding the humor in it all but, honestly, it feels incredibly hard every, single day. It also feels worth doing. I want to feel better and be better and love better. I want my life, not the old one, but the new one I have been given to create.
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About the Author: Alison Blair is a 38 year-old mother of three toddlers living in Denver, Colorado. She was diagnosed with bipolar 2 disorder about a year after the birth of her twins. At the time, Alison was a Senior Assistant Attorney General, but resigned her position to focus on treatment and maintaining her wellness. Currently stable, Alison is trying to figure out what she wants to be next.
