I am a survivor of Bipolar II Disorder, and that’s okay

A student reflects on how he overcame the turmoils that come with Bipolar II Disorder.

BY NICK GANGWERE Sports Editor

Trigger Warning: This essay contains mention of drug use and suicide.

I was 17 years old when my first depressive episode began. I remember sitting at a lunch table, wiping the uncontrollable tears from my face while I stared straight into my lap. I had to hide my face from my friends because I feared they’d ask me what was wrong, and I didn’t have the answer.

I spent hours alone in my room, journaling and sitting quietly, which only led to my anxious, racing thoughts taking over my mind.

In the brief moments I interacted with my family, I wanted them to ask if I was okay, even though I knew I would keep saying I’m fine because I wanted to hide my reality from the world.

I hoped that one day I could tell them the truth, that there were moments I didn’t want to be here anymore — that I didn’t want to be on this planet.

I didn’t know why I felt the way I did.

I perfected the fake smile, fake laughs and fake happiness that comes along with a depressive episode, but there were moments I couldn’t fake my way through life.

I began seeing a therapist toward the end of the initial episode and finally told my parents how suicidal I was. In April, 2020, after three psychiatrists examined me, I was diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder, a mental disorder that causes mood deviations from hypomanic to depressive symptoms.

My doctors prescribed two antidepressants that forced me to adjust how I lived. They blocked any extreme emotion and allowed me to only find euphoria through things I enjoy. I was headed down the right path by speaking with my therapist and truly focusing on my mental state.

Once I became adjusted to my new antidepressants, I started a mental journey to love myself again, and it took a long time to repair the damage that was done. My therapist taught me how to utilize gratitude lists, reflection charts and deep breathing as coping mechanisms when I had a bad day, and I was hoping it didn’t turn into a full-fledged episode.

My life was changing for the better during the next year until I reached college.

I forgot to take my medicine on the night of Oct. 25, 2021, and I woke up with a sense of despair the next day. I’d never forgotten to take my antidepressants before, so my body wasn’t used to the sensation of being without them.

The next night, it all came crashing down.

I wrote a message to my family, friends and loved ones. It was my suicide note — my last grasp — and it was how I thought I’d be remembered.

I started off with two or three of my antidepressant pills, swallowing them with NyQuil instead of water. When I didn’t feel their effects immediately, I took three more. By the end of the night, I’d taken about 1,400 milligrams worth of my 200 mg tablets.

My last memory from Oct. 27 was being stretchered out of my dorm room and down an elevator into an ambulance headed to Temple University Hospital. I overdosed; if it wasn’t for my roommate who called 911 and for the paramedic who rubbed my chest with enough velocity to leave scars, I would not be alive.

After consulting with my family, I began an intensive outpatient program at High Focus Centers, a mental health treatment center. In December and January of 2021-22, I spent more than 50 hours in the program, doing anything from team exercises to learning about self-care resources.

Today, I have found hope through my self-care techniques. Mental health is a balance of coping through bad times and finding joy in life.

My Bipolar II Disorder has let me find gratitude in my life and be thankful for every part of who I am. My illness is never going away, but that does not mean I need to hide it. I need to support my mental health, guide it and nurture it, because to love oneself is the best kind of love in this world.

I am Nick Gangewere, and I am not only a survivor of mental illness, but I am a better person because of it.

Read the full essay online at temple-news.com.

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