This blog won't go as in depth as my private blog on Tumblr does, mainly because this is my public blog and there are things I am just not comfortable sharing with the world.
But first off, I'll introduce myself.
My name is Alex. I'm currently 19 years old and attending UW-Platteville. I'm a sophomore (or junior, creditwise) majoring in English secondary education.
Going to college while dealing with a severe mental illness can be difficult. Hell, it is difficult. But I'm lucky to be growing up in an age where mental illness is becoming more "main stream". Now, that's not to say that mental illness is popular. But as stigma is decreasing, it is becoming easier and easier to find treatment.
Acknowledging you need treatment is the hard part. I knew I needed help as early as 8th grade. Sadly, I had trouble getting my message across, so it wasn't until my sophomore year of high school that I finally got the courage to seek help from a teacher [an English one, coincidentally-part of my determination to become an English teacher, truthfully]. Let me tell you, nothing is more terrifying than walking into your house and seeing your two concerned parents sitting at the table. That conversation I had with them was probably one of the hardest of my life, and it wasn't the last, nor will it be the last. Thank the lord I have the parents I do. Though they were worried, and I'm sure not wanting to believe something was wrong with their child, they set up a doctor's appointment for me. I was put on antidepressants and sent to therapy, where my therapist (a lovely woman, she helped so much) said I probably had dysthymia, which is chronic depression.
I wasn't altogether convinced. When I decided to get help, I wrote a letter to my English teacher explaining everything that had happened and suggesting the possibility that I was bipolar. Self diagnoses tend to be thrown to the wayside, though. You can actually convince yourself that you have a disorder, which is why WebMD is getting in the way of doctors doing their job.
I continued to take my medication, and was weaned off of it towards the end of my junior year. I got a 2.1 the semester I was getting off my meds (though that also had something to do with several deaths in my life at the time). My senior year of high school I worked my butt off. I was working part time, taking AP classes, and in Academic Decathlon. My mom went back to work for the first time since my sisters were born. With her back at work, there were more duties around the house for everyone, myself included. My mental health started to deteriorate. I was putting so much pressure on myself and only getting 2 or 3 hours of sleep a night. My grades started to fail, and I began to panic. Finally, my parents asked me if I thought I needed to go back to the doctor. I said yes, and they set up another appointment for me. My family doctor diagnosed me with anxiety and gave me a prescription for Xanax. He also referred me to a psychiatrist because he was concerned about some of the symptoms I had described for him.
In late May or early June of 2010, I went to see my current psychiatrist who gave me a definite diagnosis of bipolar disorder. As soon as those words came out of her mouth, I felt two emotions: relief and resentment. I was angry no one had listened to me when I had originally said I thought I was bipolar. I was frustrated that not one adult had thought, "Hmm, maybe we should listen to her. Maybe she knows something about herself that we don't."
It's been almost two years since that diagnosis. I'm still working on coming to terms with my illness and what it means for me. It can be (and has, on some occasions) an incredibly debilitating disease. So last week, I took precautions. I finally admitted to myself that I needed to rely on people other than myself and my family and friends for help. I applied for disability at my university. Now, this doesn't mean that I get cheaper tuition or preferential treatment. What it does mean, however, is that I now have access to tools that will help me be successful in college and graduate. I put off applying for disability for a long time. I didn't want to feel like I was getting special treatment. I didn't want to acknowledge that I have bipolar disorder. I'm open enough about it, but applying for disability felt like I was letting it defeat me. But most of all, I didn't want to admit to myself that this disorder has the ability to throw my life out of control.
But what I realize now after applying, as the Dean of Students pointed out to me when I met with her last week, is that just because I might not always be able to control it doesn't mean I can't try. There are people willing to help me every step of the way. I need only ask.
I can do anything with my life that I want.
I am not bipolar.
I HAVE bipolar disorder.
But it does not have me.
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