Flimy (Personal Narrative)

Flimsy

When I was little, I used to try to make my own puzzles. I would draw out the picture, color it in, and then over that, I'd draw in the puzzle pieces. Then, with all the meticulous care my tiny hands could muster, I'd cut along the lines with my safety-scissors. In the end, I would have these flimsy little slips of paper. They did match up, one concave shape with another, but they didn't fit like a real puzzle. The pieces didn't lock together; they just sat there next to each other. If a breeze blew in through the window, or someone turned on a fan, or if I even just coughed in the wrong direction, they'd catch a gust of air and scatter all over the table.

As I grew up, I stopped trying to make puzzles, but the memory stuck. And, in many ways, I began to feel like those delicate paper shapes, so susceptible to any sudden movement, so easily torn apart, and so hard to piece back together. At first, it was just in small ways, which did not stand out as anything unusual. I cried more than my peers, and at smaller things. I stayed home from school when I had a perfect bill of health, because the thought of getting out of bed made me feel sicker than any virus could. I avoided other kids my age, because all I could think when I was with them was, they hate me. But I was, to any concerned adult, just a shy, artistic little girl who would “grow out” of my problems. This was good enough for me, good enough for my parents, and so I got through elementary school just fine.

As the years dragged on, I got worse. I can look back now and say that, with a definitive nod of my head: I got worse. Bad days had always happened here and there, but these bad days became bad weeks, and soon bad months. I can trace back through my own history and see patches of time that, if labeled on a calendar, would have one word: Bad. And these times became longer and more frequent the older I got, because more and more was being demanded of me. It wasn’t normal, but I never knew that. I always just assumed it was normal. I was carrying a boulder on my back at all times, my mind was always finding reasons to worry, and I was constantly berating myself for everything I did.

That was the worst part… The criticism. More than just simple, common mistakes, in my eyes it was as if everything about me was flawed. I always did the wrong thing, wore the wrong clothes, said the wrong words, and even thought the wrong thoughts. I was always wrong, and the harder I tried to change that, the worse it became.

So why bother trying? That was the conclusion I came to, somewhere around 7th grade. I gave up on myself, to put it simply. There was no grand ceremony, no throwing in of the proverbial towel. Giving up was the easiest thing I’ve ever done, but I was belted with the worst consequences. Instead of making new friends, I shunned myself from conversations that, in all likelihood, would have welcomed me with open arms. Instead of broadening my world, I locked myself in my bedroom where I was safe. I saw other girls my age and classified them as “normal.” I wanted to be them, or at least something close to them, or at least anything but myself. I was everything I hated, and I hated it.

But, as I said, I had given up. I wanted to change, of course, but changing took more energy than I had left in me. I let myself sink. I cried and gave excuses, pretended to be sick, and acted like I didn’t care, because it was easier than pushing myself out of the hole I had dug. High school hit hard, like a blizzard and a tornado and a hurricane all at once. I had no means of shelter, and instead of even trying to run for cover, I froze in place and let the storm crash around me. Because it was so much easier that way.

Confidence was taken from me faster than I could even understand, slippery and elusive in the hands of high school boys and girls. I let it happen. I let myself play the role of a victim. I was the quiet girl, the one too afraid to let herself talk. I was the sad girl, who skipped class to cry about nothing.

I never had an answer when someone asked me, “What’s wrong?”

I suppose my best guess was, “I don’t know.”

Getting out of bed every morning was a struggle. I had to force myself through eating, talking with friends, and school, just to go home and stay up all night, tired but unable to fall asleep. My bad moods were as unpredictable as they were overwhelming, but somehow, they became part of my routine. I stopped reading and writing, I didn’t care about my grades, and I lost interest in even my closest friends. I couldn’t even manage a relaxing night watching TV, because I was so wracked with anxiety. My stomach was a hard knot, my heart ached, and my head felt woozy. I found myself to almost always be on the verge of tears, but I never felt any sadness, just emptiness. In every way possible, I felt empty. And I hated myself for it.

It was a long time coming, but I finally learned better. I learned that this emptiness, this sadness, this hatred… it has a name. Bipolar disorder. And with that name, I was given the chance to fight back.

In the spring of my sophomore year in high school, my symptoms hit their highest point, and I couldn’t hold back the floodwaters any longer. For all intents and purposes, let’s just say I lost it. I remember wondering what was wrong with me, asking why I couldn’t just be normal. I was making up for all the time I had spent feeling empty by feeling so full of every emotion in the spectrum that I made myself physically sick.

My mother was the first to react. I had doctor’s appointments, psychiatric evaluations, and a one-night stint at Hampstead Hospital. Finally, the truth came out. They told us, “Cadence has bipolar disorder.” Then, with packets and brochures, they explained it to me. It’s a mood disorder that causes alternating phases of mania and depression, and can lead to long-term periods of depression and eventually, suicidal behaviors. The checklist of symptoms was a perfect match for everything I felt. And in that one lucid moment, the puzzle pieces began to fit together.

My mother was unsurprised, and I learned it’s because she, too, has the disorder. I felt crazy, but I remember my mom telling me not to feel that way.

“You’re not crazy. You’re normal. It’s just chemicals in your brain, it’s not really you.” She would smooth my hair back and add, “We’ll fix this. You’ll get better.”

I felt like I was five years old again, and I loved that feeling, so safe and warm and comfortable. I never believed her at first, but it felt good to hear. Then, gradually, I began to realize that maybe, just maybe, she was right.

Fast-forward to the fall of my junior year, and I think it’s safe to say you would not recognize me.

I can walk into a room feeling good about myself. I can make new friends out of complete strangers, and open up to them without fear of judgment or hostility. I like who I am, both in the mirror and beyond, and I see my glass as not half full, but completely full, spilling over and bursting with a life I still get to live. I can make up for lost time.

I'm ready to have a job with a paycheck, and a car with a gas tank that eats aforementioned paycheck. I'm ready to buy my own clothes and pay my own bills, although I may not be ready to make the choice of one over the other. I'm ready for a dorm room and a roommate, no matter how messy or obsessively tidy she happens to be. I’m ready for life. I still have my bad days, but I press on through them, and they always end. The good days at last outnumber the bad.

There was a time when dealing with little things was beyond me. Getting out of bed was beyond me, let alone the struggle of 24 hours of day that I had to live. Now, not only can I cope with everyday events, I can see past them, and focus on my future.

I guess I can credit my medications with this radical change. But prescriptions and pills are not what make me who I am. I choose for myself if I want to be happy. The pills keep my chemicals in balance, but I keep everything else in balance. It wasn’t just the medications. It was the realization that came to me with the medications, the realization that I can hold myself together, because I deserve to be whole. It may not make a lot of sense to you, but there it is, and it's the truth. I felt so disconnected. I felt flimsy, like any tiny breeze could come along and scatter all my pieces, and I'd be lost forever. Now, I am one whole person, all my parts locked firmly together, and I have an entire life waiting for me.