Natalie's Blog Corner

Growing up with bipolar disorder was hard. Wait, it was really hard. It felt impossible at the best of times; I was certain I would not survive.

When I was twelve years old, first diagnosed, all I wanted (save for stability!) was someone who could talk to me; someone who knew what it felt like to be young and mentally ill. I hated the words ‘mentally ill’. A child, I thought, should not be mentally ill. We should be thriving and going to school, playing sports and making friends along the way. Above all, we should not be confined to a hospital working to get better. But I was. And I’m not the only one.
Juvenile bipolar disorder is rare. Bipolar disorder itself is relatively rare, although recent statistics indicate otherwise. Fourteen years ago, diagnosing a child with this illness was nearly unheard of: Canada was more liberal regarding the diagnosis, America and the UK, more conservative. I live in Canada but it still took years to diagnosis me---and rightfully so.

The various doctors’, the psychiatrists, worked to rule out everything else: Attention deficit disorder, anxiety disorder, major depressive disorder, oppositional misconduct disorder. I cannot, on two hands, remember. It was a confusing time. But I do remember being young, confused, and wondering what was wrong with me.

The nurses in the hospital were kind: they talked to me; they sometimes rubbed my back until I would fall, fitfully, asleep. My family would visit me bringing gifts of chocolate, bubble bath, and stuffed animals I still have. But when they left, when visiting hours closed on them, I was left alone. I cannot describe how frightened I was. I have done my best, within my memoir to do so, but sometimes feelings cannot be placed on a page and fingers cannot type fast enough to exhibit feelings.

I often wonder if I might be able to help someone, a child like I was, who struggles like I did. And sometimes still do. Bipolar disorder is chronic, I suppose I don’t really need to say this, but the experience among us, as a child or an adult, is shared.

The highs and the lows, the medication and therapy, it’s all part of the process and, yes, sometimes the process is difficult. When I first starting writing about my illness I was a little scared, I remembered being that child, that scared child that became a young woman and now, a woman with a story to tell. I would be lying if I told you it was easy to, shall I say, come out of the closet as a person with bipolar disorder, but I believe it’s important to put a face to the name. Imagine if more people talked about the illness, spoke about how we do recover from bipolar disorder, imagine the difference we could make?

Fourteen years of experience under my belt, that is all I hope to do.

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