Where I Was
Bipolar disorder. That was the diagnosis they gave me. And with it came every medication you can imagine. My closet was a pharmacy — antidepressants, mood stabilizers, antipsychotics, anxiolytics. I took what they told me to take. None of it worked. Not really. Some of them made me a zombie. Some of them made it worse. Some of them did nothing at all.
Psych wards. I have been in the psych ward. Inpatient. Outpatient. Hospital visits that blur together. I have sat in rooms where they take your shoelaces and your belt and your dignity. I have watched my loved ones faint from fear — literal, physical collapse from the terror of watching someone they love spiral. I have seen what it does to the people around you when you are drowning and they cannot save you.
Rumination. The thoughts that will not stop. The constant replay of everything that went wrong, everything you wish you had done differently. You lie awake at 3 AM and your mind keeps circling back to the hardest moments. It plays them on repeat and you cannot find the off switch.
Marriage. Separation. Not getting respect. Watching the person you love lose faith in you because you cannot get yourself together. The shame of knowing your partner is afraid of you — not physically, but afraid of what you are becoming. The loneliness of being married but completely alone.