I hate who I am sometimes.
I harbour both dominant qualities from both my parents; the characteristics from both parts, strong within themselves, but even stronger by contrast.
My dad is calm, creative, rational, and my mom is emotionally unstable, a substance abuser, and genuinely mean to majority of the people in her life.
I always told myself that I would be nothing like her. Yet I’ve spent most of my life pushing others away, slipping in and out of drug addictions for the past 15 years, and using individuals around me to be the front for all my problems. Just like her.
“It’s your fault,” we both tell the world.
When I was 4 or 5 I had my first panic attack. It wasn’t until I was in my 18 that I learned what a panic attack was.
It was around that time that I first started seeing my family doctor for mental health issues. He gave me a mood stabilizer with an off topic treatment for anxiety and sleeping, paired with an anti-depressant.
I would stay on this cocktail for 3 months before I stopped treatment, despite feeling better.
Over the course of my 20’s I went in and out of cocaine abuse. I mingled with many other things, but I always came back to cocaine. Weed was always there, but I never thought of it as a bad thing.
When I went to college in 2013 I became a powerhouse student. At least I thought I was. I was competitive, aggressive, and I did my best to dominate anyone that was in my way. I figured this was me taking charge, being loud and clear, making my way to the top.
But I wasn’t.
I was hypomanic.
It wasn’t until a few years later that I would learn was hypomania was.
Fast forward and I’m 26. I just experienced the worst panic episode of my life, except it was much more than that. It wasn’t just panic attacks anymore. It was hallucinations. It was irrational fear that never existed. It was something so new I didn’t know what it was. I just knew a piece of me disappeared during the moment, and it took weeks for me to come back around.
Except I never did. I was in a state of denial.
I moved back home, got a shitty job, and tried to keep on moving forward.
And then I had a bad dream.
I dreamt I was looking down at myself from above, and then the view zoomed out and I was looking at earth, then the galaxy, and so on, and so on. Eventually I was just looking at a spec of dust. Everything had zoomed back so far, that the incomprehensible size of the universe, was now just a tiny spec in front of me.
Sounds strange, maybe even a bit silly, but for some reason my mind interpreted this as my existence being insignificant, and it more or less was a realization of my own mortality. A realization that I was going to die someday.
I mean, we all know each and everyone one of us is going to die, eventually. But realistically, we’re all in the same denial. The denial of death. It’s in the back of our minds, but its never in the forefront.
And this time it was in my forefront.
Mix that together with the mental instability I had brewing up inside me, and yeah, you have yourself a shitty mess.
I remember after that dream, I never felt the same. I had crippling anxiety, depression, hallucinations, anger fits, crying fits, ripping my hair out…. I was even starting to daydream about what my suicide letters were going to say.
And let me just say, when you’re suicidal, it’s not about a pity party. Your brain actually makes you think that killing yourself is a good idea.
Ever wanted to buy something really bad, thinking it was a good idea, so you just did it, thinking it was a good decision, even if it wasn’t? That’s suicide for you. It’s a fucking dumb idea, but your brain is so bent out of shape, that it TELLS YOU to make the right choice. The right choice to kill yourself.
It’s weird because it sounds so juvenile in some ways. Like, “Look at me, give me attention, I’m so broken.”
But it wasn’t like that. It was nothing like that.
As people, we tend to view the world as if we’ve experienced everything without actually having the experience. For example, I could tell you a lot of things about being raped, but I’ve never been raped. So there’s a divide there.
I always knew there was sadness, but I never knew you could go past that. Past that and to the next level. And once you reach that level, there’s another one above it. And another one above that and so on. Each level with a new worsening perspective that you can never go back on.
But I didn’t know any better. So I did nothing about it at the time. Instead I did more drugs.
And then one day I ended up in the hospital under crisis care in the mental ward of my local hospital.
“I can’t say for sure at this moment, but it seems that you might have bipolar disorder, or a form of it.”
A few hours later I had my first psychiatrist that I would visit quite often.
That year I tried over 11 different medications. I had a panic attack for almost 8 months. I became addicted to certain medications, not by choice, but by the fact that they give you some seriously addictive shit.
But nothing ever changed. Some symptoms would get better, others would get worse, and I’d always end up lost and confused.
It’s been two years since my loose diagnoses and I somehow made it out of my moms house and moved into an apartment of my own.
Life isn’t that much better. But it is better.
The struggle is still ongoing and each day is different. The consistency never stays and I never seem to be able to anticipate any of my symptoms.
I think at the end of the day, despite the fact that I’m a bit unbalanced, I still hold onto the fact that I’m like my mom.
We are very much the same. Our symptoms are the same. Although she is more functional than myself, but still on the same page.
Sometimes I forget that I’m sick. And I just blame her for the way that I am. I feel unreasonable at times and it’s very reminiscent of her, my childhood with her, and our relationship now.
I tend to think that I’m bipolar because she was an unstable mom. Sometimes I think that all of this happening to me because of nurture and not nature. And maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe its both. Maybe it’s just idiopathic. Lot’s of maybes, but never really letting go.
I don’t really know anymore.
So I sit here. I don’t live my life as much as I used to. I make excuses for everything. I no longer make music. My fans are slowly stopping to communicate with me online. Record labels are losing interest.
I’m losing interest.
I keep holding on but there’s this void in me.
And I’m still blaming my mom for it.