Removing my mask
By: Billy Stein
Rock bottom starts with a gloomy, rainy day in Los Angeles. I can’t remember what I was watching on Netflix. I just remember writing down the words I was thinking to describe my mood and reading them to my therapist.
Insecurity. Depression. Sadness. Angst. Mania. Anger. Rage. Frustration. Violence. Frenzy. Dual. Indifference. Detachment. Pain. Delusion. Seclusion.
At the time, I had refused meds to treat my condition for so long under the mistaken belief that I had willpower over my condition. I remember being so ashamed of my own thoughts that I couldn’t even return my girlfriend’s texts.
I peeled myself off the couch and walked to the cutlery board on my kitchen counter. A borderline dull, serrated knife suddenly appeared in my right hand, and I don’t remember how it got there.
That’s the one of the most mysterious and scary things about being in a weeks’ long depressive episode. You’re so full of doubt and despair that you’re not actually present in your own mind and body.
I took the knife and held it to my carotid artery. Then, as if a light switch went on in my head, my consciousness returned and jolted me from that dreamlike state. I lowered the knife, sparing myself from death or injury.
How did I ever get to such a place, I often wonder.
I spent most of my adolescence and all of my 20s masking Bipolar 2 and a moderate to severe anxiety disorder. I consciously suppressed what was going on in my head, because I was ashamed that I wasn’t like everyone else. I feared that if I sought help, I would be looked at as weak.
So I did nothing, for as long as I can remember.
Today, I work a stressful job in the sales department of one of LA’s premiere software companies. My job ratchets up my anxiety and heightens my insecurity. I believe it’s the root of many of my episodes. But I love my company and my coworkers, and my job saved my life.
Being employed where I am gave me the resources to fight my battle with mental illness. I opted to treat my demons instead of hide from them. I started medication. I meet with a therapist now, and a psychiatrist, and I have made a life decision to get my struggle under control.
Still, the struggle is real.
When people look me in the face, they see my smile and sense of humor shine through. But they don’t see the daily trench warfare going on in my mind. Friends and loved ones can’t see the demons that terrorize my mornings and evenings. They can’t fathom the energy it takes to maintain my composure or just get out of bed in the mornings.
Medication often makes me so exhausted by 3 p.m. I can’t see straight, or so groggy at 5 a.m. that I need multiple alarms to wake up. This is what it costs for me to appear “normal.” Maybe there is no such thing as normal. Each one of us faces our own struggles in life.
For people with bipolar disorder, the struggle is an ongoing one because medicine can treat the symptoms of the disorder, but is not a cure.
Through my support group, Twitter and Medium I’ve found a way to connect with the bipolar community and let them know they have an ally. Mental illness is a schoolyard bully, but just like on the playground, there is strength in numbers.
I choose to tell my story and engage with other members of the community because we all need a gang around us. Even the baddest bully isn’t immune from a large community that’s united. I’m here for you and I welcome you to be a part of my gang.
You can read my posts on Medium: medium.com/@bstein404 and follow me on Twitter: @depressedyuppie.
Billy Stein is a tech sales strategist and charitable fundraiser living in Los Angeles.
