My Coming Out Story

I'm going to do something crazy right now. I am going to dive head first off the cliff by telling everyone a story that I have never ever told anyone before. You might've thought that just because I talk about sex and reproductive health all the time, there's pretty much nothing that I can't talk about, right? Well, this is going to feel like I ripped a page off of my diary. I'm going to tell you about my coming out story. It's not the kind of coming out that you're thinking about, but it's going to leave me naked and vulnerable just like an LGBT coming out. And at the end of this post, I'm sure I'll have people labeling me as a freak and stigmatizing me. I know the risks, but I'm doing this anyway.

Two years ago, I became severely depressed. The reason could've been due to the fact that my father kicked me out of his house combined with me making unhealthy decisions in my love life, and having to scrap up enough money to pay for the rent and college. I was seventeen.

I was living all myself in a small apartment which was basically a big room with a bathroom. One night before my exam, I was so stressed out that I messed around with my shaving blade. I took everything apart and started testing it on my wrist. I didn't stop until I made a bunch of shallow cuts. It felt good.

The "I'm happy, my life is great" persona

I began self-harming more often. I denied to myself that I needed help because it felt good to cut. It felt good to run that blade through my skin. I wanted scars. I was so repulsed with myself that I wanted my outside to match my brokenness. I wanted to see my own blood. The physical pain numbed the gut-wrenching, drowning feeling that always seemed to choke me.

About two weeks later, I started to see that there was something wrong. I was terrified of the night. Every time the sun went down, I had a panic attack. I couldn't breathe. There was a lot of sobbing. There were a lot of suicidal thoughts. I would keep on trembling and sobbing my heart out. I had to cut. It was my only coping method. It was the only thing that stopped me from losing my mind. Just like a drug addict, I was hooked on self-harm. I know some people might say, "Why didn't you just stop?" I wish it was as simple as that. I had two choices: I could either end my life, or I could self-harm and pray that, that was enough to keep the pain bearable for another day.

Over a month later, however, I attempted. I won't go into all the details, but something was going to happen the next day, and I just could not face it. I was ready to end it all. Out of nowhere, my friend pounded on my door and asked to be let in. That friend cried and pleaded with me not to do it. That friend saved my life. 

The next day, I felt like everything was all sunshine and roses. Little did I know that I was transiting into a hypomanic episode. I thought I was merely getting over what happened. I thought I was strong and invincible. I thought I was Super-Cath -- the ability to get over horrible series of events in one night.

I was in hypomania for a few months. There were times when I got depressed, though most of the time, I was as high as a kite. I would wake up feeling like that world was my oyster. I would turn up the music and dance till I was late for work. I was high.

The high didn't last very long. A few months later, I started feeling more depressive episodes. I would be extremely happy, turning up the music, dancing around in my living room, and drinking bottles of vodka or beer or anything I could get my hands on. The next day, I would be lying on the floor or curling into a ball, crying and wishing I was dead. The cycle repeated a few times a week.

I had read enough psychology books by that point to notice that there was a really good chance that I have bipolar disorder. I went to my psychologist friend, and my suspicion was confirmed; I have bipolar disorder.

Once I got to America, I experienced more downs and ups. I started cutting again. I had relapsed a lot of times before that, but after getting to America, it was more alarming. I seriously was considering suicide. I self-harmed more intensely. I realized that I needed help. I went to my school counselor to get re-evaluated. Once again, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder type II.

"Yin and yang"

I won't bore you with the nits and grits of my life. I just want to open up and show you a very raw story of who I really am. There are times when I try to suppress it and be normal, but I usually end up in my room, feeling broken. Of course, there are times when I actually break down right on the spot. And there are also times when I fall down and can't get back up. It's like one of those fainting sheep, except more crying and less adorable. I want to tell you all this because this is who I am. I didn't choose this. I've heard people say that we merely choose to be depressed. Trust me, if I had a choice, I wouldn't choose to be so miserable. You have no idea how awful it is to feel like you drowning and you're lost but you can't find a way home, all while choking for air. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy, but I just have to accept things as they are.

There have been times when I was ridiculed for this. Because my moods change so often, sometimes I want to be left alone and sit on the corner all by myself. A close friend of mine/co-worker told another friend/co-worker one day, that she could either be more socialize and be a team-player or she could sit on the corner all by herself like me. It broke my heart. Of all people, I thought she would understand. Even if the world thought I was just being a whiny little child who wanted attention, I thought she would understand that I never chose to be like this. I went home and cried...and cried. After all, she saved my life. How could she not understand this, right? Maybe I should've known better. 

Recently, I was told by someone I knew to just not let this side of me show because people might not understand. The problem is, this is a part of me. It's always going to be there. I can't pretend to be well; I can't pretend to not have bipolar disorder. That person told me that people might label me as a freak and I would have problem fitting in in society. Again, I trusted that person to understand it because that person told me that they would be there for me. Apparently, I should've learned and not trust anyone but myself.

I'm doing better now. I have been on meds for a while. Although it doesn't "cure" this, the meds stabilizes my moods and make me more bearable to be with. Just ask my boyfriend. There are still times when I get depressed and have a panic attack, but at least, I don't have suicidal thoughts looming above my head every second of the day.

The reason why I wrote all this is because I'm sick and tired of people keep telling me how I should feel, as if they know my whole story -- as if they know my life. I'm sick of people treating this as if it's nothing. It's a disease of the mind, and it's very real. Over 30% of people with bipolar commit suicide. If only people close to them pay more attention and realize that it's a real problem, maybe the number would be lower. I don't need people to feel sorry or treat me any differently.

I'm not trying to say that having bipolar is the worst thing in the world and people should give me special treatment. I'm not delusional. The point is, however, that you can't compare things like that. Even if you've been through it all, each one of us feels things differently. We have different pain-tolerance level. And for God's sake, stop telling me to get over it because other people are dying from cancer or some other horrible diseases. All diseases are horrible. This is not less horrible than the others just because you can't see it. It's a chemical imbalance. In case you don't believe it, I wrote a post about it with strings of references.

At the end of the day, I'm writing this because I hope that you know who I am, and if you can't take that, then that's your decision. And I'm writing this because I want someone who's on the same boat to know that at least someone gets it. We might haven't figured out the light at the end of the tunnel yet, but at least we're on the same boat.