Lost in my Mind (Part III): The Aftermath

“Two roads diverged in a wood and I – I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”

—Robert Frost

It’s been awhile. I’m sorry to make you wait so long for this third part. I’ve struggled over the past weeks to compose something linear, something easy to digest, that outlines the remainder of that year (2009). What I’ve come up with over the past two and a half weeks is a recollection of a decade’s worth of tangential memories that are strung together by photographic markers in my phone that remind me of where I was when… and who I was at that given moment. 

I think what I really want to share with you is how that first episode was more of a foreshadowing of what the next ten years would look like. Countless hospital visits and various symptoms being triggered by stress and significant life changes.  Each of my episodes can be traced back to tectonic shifts in my environment that adversely affected my dopamine and serotonin levels. 

So let me first take you back to that six months after I first got out of the hospital. I’ll elaborate about the initial shocks and changes some, but then I want to get to the hills and valleys over the subsequent nine years. There was an abundance of roller coasters after graduating from college until I met Micah. That’s the aftermath I really want to share because it shows you why I am the way I am; it will highlight my sensitivities and strengths in a way I couldn’t otherwise describe. 

My hope is that this series of posts gives preface to what I continue to dialogue about here, on this blog. Without hearing about the ongoing, decade-long battle with my brain and my heart, my passions that I’ll delve into here might be mistaken for token ideas or misrepresented as trite points of interest void of tangible experiences. I want you to hear straight from the horse’s mouth why I care so much about relationships, identity, faith, and mental health. As always, thanks for being here and bearing with my cataloging of the winding path that led me here.

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My nineteenth birthday came and went a week after being discharged from Ten Broeck. I remember not many days later, it hit me like a brick wall: maybe that voice I heard wasn’t God at all. Maybe it was just a voice in my head, an imposter pretending to be the voice I held closest. Many of you are probably thinking, “Well, duh. Obviously it wasn’t God. How could you even entertain that idea? All the evidence proves it wasn’t God; you weren’t mentally sound.” While I would probably agree if I were you, the fact is that my experience was very real, as real as you reading this right now. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say with certainty what the voice was or wasn’t, not this side of heaven at least. But isn’t that what faith is… believing without seeing? 

I don’t deny I was not my fullest self during that time, but does that necessitate that the voice I heard was, in fact, a hallucination? Regardless, it was real to me at the time. Now, my other symptoms-- my increased speech, racing thoughts, synchronizing unrelated ideas, and my severe insomnia-- were definitely reflective of a larger problem. I was (and am) aware that my symptoms pointed to a chemical/biological imbalance as the most reasonable root cause, that this was indeed the representation of a manic bipolar episode. 

I mentioned that dexamethasone shot at school when I had the flu; as it turns out, research shows that this steroid can spark mania even in people without a genetic predisposition to mental illness. There’s no way to really know with certainty, but doctors said it was possible. What I later discovered after leaving the hospital was my family’s history with mental illness. I had no idea at the time, but I had more than one relative who dealt with mental illness in a life-altering capacity. This only gave assurance to the diagnosis and assured my family and friends that this was indeed my first of likely numerous manic episodes I would have in my lifetime. This first one was either triggered by that shot, or it was bound to happen anyway, like a sleeping giant lying dormant in my mind until startled awake by environmental triggers.

Diagnosis aside, what I can say for sure, is that spiritual warfare is no joke and that the body & mind are two of the primary battlefields. While there are chemicals and neurological factors at play, no doubt, my experience was reflective of the perfect storm of spirituality and physicality swirling together to make it nearly impossible to discern what was supernatural and what was merely mortal mania. I wish I could tell you that episode was the only one I’ve ever had. The truth is I’ve lost count of my hospitalizations. I’ve admitted myself at least six out of the past eleven years, but maybe even a total of ten to twelve occurrences in total (some episodes required multiple back-to-back hospital visits). 

As you can imagine, this nearly month-long process after that initial onset and hospitalization demanded that I withdraw from school that Spring semester of 2009. I missed the remainder of my freshman year and I was heartbroken about it. I had everything going for me before all this, before my world was uprooted and flipped upside down. This diagnosis, labeled as a “disorder,” was not easy to accept. Much the opposite. Was I broken? Why would God choose to use me and my story this way? I don’t know, but I do find it odd that this initial episode was being used to orchestrate conversations about faith that quite possibly wouldn’t have happened otherwise. While my idea about what it would look like for God to use me was far from what I’d envisioned as a child, it was undeniable that something beyond me was at work.

Those immediate months following my diagnosis were the definition of dazed and confused. Why was I sleeping so much? I would go to bed late at night, but I could sleep until noon or 2  the next day. I was only awake for at most ten hours every day. I was sleeping doubles… at least 14 if not 16 or 18 hours… at one time! To say I was drugged would’ve been an understatement… I was in a stupor, numb and nearly blacked out like the repercussions of the world’s worst hangover. I was only taking two medications-- risperdal and depakote-- each a different class but with some similar side effects. 

Risperdal, for example, was an antipsychotic frequently used to treat bipolar disorders, anxiety, schizophrenia; its side effects include: headaches, dizziness/ drowsiness/ feeling tired, fatigue, tremors/ twitching/ uncontrollable muscle movements, depressed mood, dry mouth, increased appetite, weight gain, insomnia, cough, cold symptoms, fever, etc. Depakote was an anticonvulsant used to treat epilepsy and migraines in addition to manic episodes in “mood disorders” like Bipolar. Its side effects include (but are not limited to): drowsiness, weakness, nausea, vomiting, upset stomach, mood swings, menstrual changes, weight gain, tremors, blurred vision and hair loss. Let’s just say that altogether, I easily checked off all but maybe the cough and cold symptoms over the course of the following months.

It was hard to tell what to attribute to medicine changes and what was just the new normal. The reality was, it was both all at once… I was told I would be on some form of medication for the rest of my life. But did that mean I was going to feel like this?! God, please let there be another way. For example, one of the symptoms was weight gain. Now, when both of your medications list “weight gain” as a side effect, you might think it’ll be 5-10 pounds, but okay-- pros of sound mind out-weigh cons… no, no my friends. I went from 120 maybe 125 to over 160 pounds in four months-- for a petite 5’4” stature, that's a big jump. From March through July I went from a size 2/4 to an easy 10/12. 

Now, let me tell you something. When you increase your mass by more than 133% that fast, you feel like shit. I even hired a personal trainer and worked out everyday but Sunday from May-July and didn’t lose a single pound. Now, I’m well aware that the number on the scale does not equate with who I am, but it does tell a story to a certain degree. What I’d known myself to be for so long was suddenly stripped from me. What I mean by that is I had always identified as, “A petite, active & healthy young woman.” Over a few short months, this piece of my identity was entirely upended and it was well beyond my control. It was during this experience I realized my vanity. I’d learned for years to self-identify with my appearances and my achievements that I didn’t recognize myself when it was removed. What was I after all my abilities and attractiveness dissipated? Would other people still recognize me... friends and strangers alike? I had the realization that if I was this shallow, how could I expect them (anyone else) to be any different?

That is just one of many examples. I had zero energy or mental aptitude. I remember going back to school feeling still like a shell, but a stubborn one. Naturally, I was told I didn’t need to go back. No one but me thought that was the best idea at the time. It was understandable why people were thinking I shouldn’t go back; it would be taxing and I could barely handle a low-energy day at home that summer. How was I going to handle a full course load on top of the social awkwardness? Well, despite everyone’s hesitancies, I fought. As August approached, it was agreed upon-- I was going back. I couldn't let the “what ifs” take control of my life; I refused to let fear dictate my path. Well, I suppose I could have but then I would’ve sacrificed something more than my ego, I would’ve betrayed my character. So, six months later when August came, I went back… forty pounds heavier, heavily medicated, very afraid, but I went anyway.

Little did I realize while I was home that summer, going back would be as or more terrifying than the experience I just had in the hospital. I was going to be judged and outcast by familiar faces who I’d held close and with high esteem-- I thought I would just plug right back into where I’d left off. But people had moved on. I was either old news or people were afraid to associate with me. I was rejected to a large degree, particularly by a small circle of friends that I thought would welcome me home upon my return. I knew there was no avoiding it-- the outcasting-- at least by those who weren’t close, but to have those closest to you leave you high and dry was really tough. (Insert another layer to years of therapy dealing with abandonment issues… I’ll talk about this more in a future post.) That, on top of struggling to regain focus and articulate thoughts that seemed so disjointed in my mind, it was grueling and testing. I didn’t feel myself, not for another six months.

While at the time I was deeply hurt and saddened over these lost friendships I thought I’d cultivated during my first semester at school the year prior, this would actually prove to be one of the best things for me. It paved the way for friendships I may not have had otherwise, both during that year and for years to come. It broke me open in a way where all I could do was be raw and real; there was no room for faking it even if I wanted to. The friendships I made after this time were founded in things deeper than shared interests and fun activities, but in character and shared beliefs. It was during my sophomore year that I started some of the friendships I still hold close to this day. 

It was later my sophomore year that I changed my major, got heavily involved in some non-academic groups and felt like I was finding a home. I was highly involved with a student service organization, student government, my sorority, etc. I also dated a guy that was good for me, and encouraged me to be brave and be the fullest version of myself that I could. It was in that second half of my sophomore year that I finally started to get my groove back. It was a slow and steady race, but the remaining years of college were enjoyable. Admittedly, I wasn’t quite the same Kelsey as I’d been before, but this revised version I began to accept and find a new identity in… one that was naturally more skeptical, but equally curious and in awe of the world around me. I graduated a summer term behind my classmates, but I got to walk with my class and graduated Cum Laude nevertheless. I was proud of my college career, despite that first very deep valley. 

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In late 2012 I had just moved home from Birmingham, where I’d lived away at school for four years. I was dating someone different but quite seriously at the time that looked like it was progressing towards engagement. He was already living in Louisville due to a Masters program in creative writing, and when I came home I anticipated everything falling into place without missing a step. That was far from what happened though. For the first time, I saw him integrating with my family, but something was off-- things were different. I was realizing I had known this person in a very intellectual, isolated and even philosophical context (we’d met in a poetry theory class). It wasn’t until I came home and wasn’t taken out of my bubble that I woke up and realized where I was… and while he’d given me so much direction, encouragement and support during my final year of school, dating him in “the real world” I realized we just weren’t as compatible as I’d assumed we’d be, all shared pursuits removed.

Additionally, I was living with my parents again and was working two jobs… stress was high and I was feeling the pressure of this relationship moving to the next phase combined with figuring out who exactly I was post degree, living in the real world. I remember ending that relationship in early November knowing it was for the best, but also being in anguish over the loss of all this all this relationship held and represented. Not even ten days later I was in the hospital. I remember getting out just before the Thanksgiving holiday, feeling defeated and deflated but trusting things would get better.

I was able to settle into more of a normal rhythm in 2013 when I applied for graduate school and started a program in Social Work at the University of Louisville. I had more direction and a clear focus, but I was working three jobs including my field work, nannying, and a retail job. As the field placement progressed, I had my own clients and cases that demanded working at odd hours and occasionally being woken up by phone calls of hospital admissions… things grew more stressful my second semester. 

On top of all that, it was between my first and second semesters of grad school that I was date raped.  Sadly, I was unable to acknowledge it for what it was at the time… it took three years of learning and processing to see it for what it was. I will spare you the explicit details, but I will share that there was definitely nothing even close to consent that night; I did everything in my power to stop what was happening but I was outsized and couldn’t do anything but cry while it happened. I blamed myself over and over again for being in a situation where this could happen, and I refused to believe that something of that magnitude could happen to me. So, I decided not to call it what it was; I wouldn’t use the “r” word. 

I knew the person as an acquaintance so I tirelessly tried to justify how and why it happened. He had gotten to know me through exchanged calls, texts, and brief encounters in group settings; he genuinely seemed to care about my wellbeing. After that night, I even attempted to pursue some semblance of a relationship with this person… as in, I went on more dates with him and invested time and energy in trying to regain control as to somehow erase the reality of that unstoppable first encounter. I know it sounds crazy, but I was in denial and confused about this person’s motives and fairly naive too. It took a few months, but I slowly unraveled and couldn’t focus in school, I was failing classes (never happened to me before), I lost motivation and wasn’t taking care of myself at all. 

It breaks my heart looking back at that girl who was carrying around a heavy burden of misplaced shame that didn’t belong to me. It’s no wonder now that following summer in 2014 I had a series of rapid cycling episodes in June and July that were expressing symptoms of increased irritability, impulsivity, recklessness, hyperactivity, and paranoia. This episode was different. I was irrational and could get angry very easily. It was like all of this suppressed rage and frustration just bellowed over all at once over the period of a few months, with some tell-tale manic “highs” in between… I could be elated or very agitated. This cycle of episodes last on and off for months… like at least four or five. It felt like the remainder of 2014 was a complete tornado in and out of inpatient stays followed by outpatient treatment. I got a second retail job in October and began to rebuild a life. I actually tried going back through my Instagram to tell which posts were manic and which were not… honestly, in that season, that year in particular, it’s hard to differentiate and I went dark from October of 2014 to May of 2015.

I felt like I’d fully wasted my collegiate experience. I’d put a pause on my masters degree after my last episode in 2014, and wasn’t any closer to making any real waves of success in my life. In addition, I had begun this very secretive, isolating relationship with someone I met during that hospital stay… In hindsight, this was obviously a terrible idea. At the time I was seeking someone who understood my circumstance, who could relate, but I had no idea the kind of person I was becoming involved with. Over months that turned into years, I discovered this person showed a lot of narcissistic behavior. Initially though, I struggled to distinguish what was young love and infatuation and what was outright manipulation. 

As time went by, I became increasingly engulfed but embarrassed about it all. I was acting out and going against my values and beliefs in this manipulative relationship to attempt to repair or restore what had already happened to me after being raped, trying to correct something that was so heartbreakingly wrong. I desperately wanted to be in a committed, consensual relationship where I felt safe and accepted for my flaws. This seemed like it was that, at least at first. I was trying to feel in control of my situation, trying to relate to someone who shared a similar experience (a hospitalization especially), but the reality was we could not have been more different or more detrimental for each other. I had this failed sense of identity, and this relationship was quick to boost my ego making me feel like, “Well, at least I have him.” 

All the while though, this person was keeping me focused on him solely, and I wrestled with making decisions for myself independently. He was also going through his own trauma, and my empathy replaced logic… I let him further and further into my world. I was being gaslighted on repeat by this individual, and was stuck in a cycle of apologizing about everything and questioning my memories and past experiences. This perpetuating interrogation only heightened the emotional abuse; this toxicity was sticking to me like moths on a floodlight. As a result, I began questioning my holistic reality. 

Despite the existence of this twisted, trauma bond (and my second one at that), I was still trying to date other people to try and maneuver a way out of this toxicity by replacing it with something “healthy.” See, that’s the strange thing about it all-- I knew things were off but I couldn’t identify what the root of it was then, so I just kept going, navigating my every move to keep from upsetting this person who had practically hypnotized me. All the while, I got on dating apps and went on arranged dates set up by mutual friends to distract myself from the reality I had gotten stuck in. I met a fellow or two that I ended up actually liking, good dudes. 

Unfortunately, these men only served as placeholders because I was too afraid to give up this phoney, contrived person I’d become. On the outside, I was a devoted Christian who focused on dating like-minded, kind-hearted men of integrity. But the reality was, I was trapped in thoughts of self-sabotage and worthlessness, and refused to leave a relationship that affirmed those thoughts. No matter what I tried to emulate, I was in no place for a healthy relationship mentally or emotionally… hence this unofficial, cowardly relationship. Nevertheless, I was still looking, trying to find a way out, an ideal path to this pseudo perfect person I was trying to be, someone who could replace this false “me” I’d created, more like stumbled upon, in recent years. 

I felt trapped. I couldn’t distinguish what was in my mind versus reality, and this master manipulator could convince me of almost anything while shaming me and accusing me of being “crazy.” While I was still attending church regularly and praying a lot, the reality was I was running from God; I wasn’t listening. I didn’t fully trust Him to deliver me out of this mess… I honestly didn’t see how he could pull me out of the whole I’d buried myself in. I was wrestling with self-control and self-reliance in a way I hadn’t dealt with, at least to this severity, before. This led to severe mood swings, racing thoughts, flashbacks, nightmares, etc. I wasn’t well, that’s for certain, but was I expressing Bipolar symptoms or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder symptoms… or both?

Aside from being engulfed in this relational spiraling shitstorm, 2015 was mostly a blur. I did manage to get my first salaried job as a “Brand Ambassador” at the retail store where I worked… I was glad and but so disappointed in myself at the same time-- I knew I wasn’t even scratching the surface of my potential. I desperately needed this though, something consistent in my life, and this job was it for that year. Semi-mindless work where I could take trips often and my searching heart could try to rest and recuperate for a bit. It wasn’t ideal, but it afforded me to live in my apartment and allow me some semblance of normalcy. While that was good in its own right, I was 25 and a grad-school dropout with no real direction. I had my faith as an anchor, but I was venturing into unknown territory as I explored relationships in ways I hadn’t before. I was giving myself away to try to and fill this deep whole, trying to control a part of my life that had literally been taken from me.

In early to mid April of 2016 I was symptomatic again.  I experienced an array of manic symptoms throughout that spring and early summer. This series of manic episodes were colored with the more of the classic highs-- the elation, false sense of superiority, risky behavior, euphoria and hyperactivity. I remember going back to the hospital a few times between late April and June after having a mid-twenties identity crisis coupled with trying to leave a different toxic relationship I had gotten myself in since my previous episode. I fell into more depressive symptoms as I grasped tightly to what remained after that season.  I felt like an utter failure, though I masked it with happy posts, curating a narrative of trying to celebrate the season I was in when in reality I was defeated.

At the end of 2016 I finally left retail to go back to direct service work where I’d left off in my Masters degree. I also decided I would apply for a pre-Med program thinking I wanted to pursue getting my MD. It was like clockwork, I was symptomatic again in the Spring of 2017 and I had another episode. This one was a mixed bag of depressive and manic symptoms. I was exhausted from carrying the weight of the clients I served… they all had varying degrees of cerebral palsy and I was one of their primary caretakers. I did home-visits and tried to get each of my clients acclimated in more of a routine that was integrated with the rest of society. We would go to the library, churches, coffee shops, museums and bookstores. I helped them do everything from using the bathroom, to making meals, doing laundry, helping them with their hobbies like writing, online dating, etc… I was good at this but I was so taxed after five months of this every day that I broke. This one, like many others, came like a perfect storm right after my 27th birthday.

The rest of that year, things were looking up. I started a new job doing sales and marketing for a social enterprise, a bakery… it was the business arm of a ministry that worked to get women out of the sex industry and teach them life and job skills. I loved the cause and the work. It was fun! Not to mention, I found an apartment where I was going to live solely and independently-- I’d always had roommates, so this was big for me. I started distancing myself from that toxic relationship and my seeing other people was evolving; I was on the cusp of being in a healthier relationship with one of those guys I had held at arm’s length before. I was still afraid though, of committing to something that was healthy and held me accountable; at that point all my confidence had been stripped from me. While I was regaining confidence and conviction at work and at home, relationally I was afraid I was too much of a failure to be worth the pursuit of anyone. I felt like I’d given up hope, that I didn’t deserve anything more than a pathetic guise of a shallow, half-hearted relationship. 

My battle with that toxic individual wasn’t over yet; I struggled to cut ties completely for reasons I cannot quite understand. I think I was comfortable feeling worthless-- it was familiar and it was affirmed in this relationship. And I’d given it so much time off and on… years, four to be exact. Essentially, all the negative, self-sabotaging thoughts had a home in this relationship and while I knew I was leading myself to my own demise, I was walking in head first because I felt like all my mistakes had warranted this outcome. 

By the time Spring of 2018 rolled around, I had another perfect storm of symptoms. My insomnia and lack of appetite was back, my distractibility, irritability,  hyperactivity and spontaneity was full-fledged. My existential crisis was back and I was in the same predicament I was in during my last episode, but more complicated this time. I had just decided to leave my job that I enjoyed at the time to try and return to graduate school (again) believing this pursuit was above all others. I knew I wanted things to be different this time. I wanted out of this awful tug-of-war with my mind where I believed lie after lie from the pit of hell about my lack and my inferiority… my worthlessness. My head knew this wasn’t true, but my heart had been conditioned to feel this and I was scared of upending the lies. Then what? Who would I be without these feelings? 

In late March of 2018 I had an aggressive episode. I mean I guess they all are to some degree, but this one was exceptional. I remember driving back from a trip to Florida with a dear friend and I was beside myself… as in I just wasn’t myself. We stopped in Nashville and I stayed there with my brother and asked to go to hospital before my parents got there. After driving midnight circles in a snowstorm around the city, crying uncontrollably, eventually we landed back at my brother’s before my parents arrived. We were trying to go home and I was fully out of control, talking to anyone who would listen, being a disheveled mess. Through a series of unfortunate events I wound up at a small hospital in Franklin, TN before being discharged to be transported to my usual psych ward at Ten Broeck in Louisville.

I was there for a week or so. After I was released, it wasn’t two weeks later that I reconnected with Micah, my now husband. In case you haven’t noticed yet, it’s typical that when I leave a hospital stay, I usually still experience a lot of less severe symptoms, or what I like to call “residual symptoms.” It’s in these little pockets that I either continue to come down or that my fire is lit up all over again and I regain momentum and spiral further into another cycle. Well, naturally, when you reconnect with your high school love after twelve years of living separate lives there’s a lot of excitement and energy. It was exactly six days into Micah and I spending time together again that I was manic again and needed to go back to the hospital. One would think Micah would’ve run for the hills at that point, but he didn’t. He was patient with me and stayed by my side and worked with my parents to get me a bed at the hospital. They called one evening, and the hospital didn’t have an opening until the following morning, so Micah drove me around aimlessly on windy Kentucky backroads and I let me talk from midnight until 7:00 a.m. the following morning. I suppose, technically speaking, that was our first of many road trips. Before we finally landed in the hospital parking lot for what felt like the 100th time, I demanded we go back to his house so I could give the dogs a hug before I was admitted. 

When he dropped me off, I was haggard and totally spent. I was wearing an oversized green and orange hoodie that said “inspired by the hustle” across the front, hair tossed up in some wild bun with pens sticking out (I wanted to be prepared), some of Micah’s Lululemon pants and my fancy, heeled Ugg boots. Honestly, I couldn’t come up with the same outfit again if I tried; I was a vision. As we walked in I was thinking, “How in the world is this still my reality… coming here like it’s a vacation home? And what on earth is Micah thinking?” We sat down in a small room off the entryway and I was looking down at the floor while the intake counselor asked, “So, tell me about what’s brought you here?” I knew this question and circumstance all too well, so I made Micah talk to the woman because I just couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t explain it, why or how I was once again so quickly back at square one. Why had the past six years felt like a never ending cycle? I was done.

That hospital stay was a memorable one though, especially my visits. On Wednesday evenings and Sunday afternoons we could have a limited number of visitors come and see us if they were on our “approved visitors list”. In the past I had made remarkably long lists of all sorts of people that I delusionally thought might come to see me… this time my list was reasonable, and fairly short. Some close friends, my parents and Micah. There was one visit where my parents and Micah were there in the cafeteria with me. I remember Micah being visibly overwhelmed and not knowing what to say or do-- I knew because he was quiet and his leg was bouncing-- but he gave me a very thoughtfully written letter that I still have. We sat there and talked about my highly scheduled days, my groups and doctor check-ins, and I asked them what they’d been doing; this what I refer to as hospital small talk. Without warning, I asked my dad to give my apartment key to Micah so he could go get some stuff for me. I’m sure my dad (and Micah) thought I had lost it-- then again I was in a psych ward-- but he reluctantly but politely handed Micah my key. They gave each other half-smiles, knowing they were appeasing me, and I made them hug each other too before they had to leave. 

After a couple weeks at the hospital and me agreeing to complete outpatient treatment, I was finally released for discharge. The day came and Micah was there to pick me up with dogs in tow. He wasn’t just physically there either, he was emotionally available too, waiting to lift me up and remind me of who I was, who I’d always been even before all of this, before a diagnosis and handfuls of hospital visits. That’s the thing about being with someone who’s been in your life for a while, someone from “before”. I had struggled in recent years dating people who had no history or awareness with me “before” the diagnosis or trauma. He was able to help me realize and recognize myself in ways no one else could; he could point to mannerisms, behavior and phrases I would say and point back to “that’s the girl I’ve always known and loved”. This was grounding in a way. It helped me comprehend that I wasn’t totally astray, my personality and character wasn’t completely lost or distorted.

After weeks of intensive outpatient therapy sessions and newfound old love given from a trusted man of the utmost integrity, I finally started to give up this old identity of worthlessness and frenetic energy and replaced it with wholeness and calm. It was Micah’s constant & continued love and endurance that finally convinced me I was worth something more. It was like I woke up from a deep spell and slumber, like sleeping beauty finally rising to meet her prince. It’s a shame it took us that long to find our paths crossing again, that I forced our paths to diverge after our all too short high school relationship. I still regret that, breaking up with him; I truly believe my life would have unfolded extremely differently had we stayed together. But, c'est la vie. We learned so many lessons and got a whole lot of life out of the way by becoming adults on our own. In the end, we worked out, despite the years of heartache.

Since that series of episodes in the Spring of 2018, I haven’t had any manic episodes. That year I did get on two new medications, but my normal triggers of stress and rapid life event changes the past two years have not sent me spiraling. I can attribute some of this to medication, but I think more of it has to do with a constant, unconditional love. Praise God for divine intervention… I can only imagine where I’d be now without my number one.

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Reflecting back on my most recent decade is a gut-check in a lot of ways; I think it is healthy to question our growth and progress. Even still, it is strange, looking back. Strange to be able to see the unfolding of my mind like an estranged representation of myself through a mirror. Am I really different than I was two, five, ten years ago? My character is essentially the same, maybe even more concrete, but my behavior and identity though… it has evolved, progressed lightyears from an insecure, fearful young woman to one of confidence and acceptance. 

This homage to my twenties was really about that-- about the grit & gratitude it takes to stand up again after you fall, over and over, and even when it feels easier to just stay down. It’s about adaptability and the resiliency to bounce back by the grace of God, not by myself. These snapshots of my episodes are etched into my memory, and they serve as guideposts for me. They point to the forks in the road… some where it felt like I was falling backwards, losing ground on the same hill I’d just climbed. But no matter how many times I found myself losing ground, getting caught in a fierce storm, walking in circles or winding up at the trailhead again, I would still try to climb again. While it may be easier to stay down at the start, or stuck at a crossroads, that’s not where we were meant to live; it’s not how we were designed.

So, after trying what felt like every possible trail over and over with the same result, eventually, I found an uncharted path. After nine years of climbing and restarting on repeat, eventually, when I looked up, I saw my ultimate guidepost. It was a warning sign actually, weathered and discreet-- so unassuming I almost missed it. Most of the other signs I passed were newer, freshly painted and illustrated thoroughly mapped courses with built in mile markers; some were flat trails with no real effort necessary, and some were windy, zig-zagging back and forth. All had their own appeal, but this modest, worn sign read: “NOTICE: ENJOY AT YOUR OWN RISK”... but I could see there was an overlook waiting beyond. I’d passed this sign a long time ago (as a teenager, quite literally). It took me twelve years to get back to this same point on the ascent, but eventually I saw the sign again, but with fresh eyes this time. There was Micah. Like the entry point to the best and worthwhile views, I had traveled many a zig-zagging path to get back here, to this sign, and I almost missed him for the second time… I was so close to running right past him again. But I was more aware of my surroundings this go-around, and he was the most enticing of them all-- I decided to take the uncharted course. I wanted to get to that overlook where I could rest and soak it in. And damn, the view was worth the wait.

Meeting him again made me realize the person, this forgotten version of myself, who was there all along...  Micah ushered in a reclaimed identity, he showed me how hard I worked to get there and reminded me that it was not in vain. He showed me how to look in the mirror and see a woman who is strong but appreciates her weaknesses, brave but acknowledges her fears and insecurities, intelligent but sees when she’s being irrational or ignorant, gracious (with herself and others) but can acknowledge her impatience, confident but easily humbled, forgiving but knows when to leave something (or someone) alone. I am who I am, and I am learning how to be a woman of dignity and integrity. That is a priceless gift that I rejoice over daily and I credit my partner and God for that. 

Now, Micah is not my savior but he reminded me of where my identity truly lies, where my worth comes from… It took me years of pausing to sit on the bench, stalling, getting stuck and falling, running down the same well-worn trails on repeat, plus many dead-end and arduous trails, before we met again. So while his sign promised nothing, it was a risk I was willing to take. I’d never been in a relationship with someone who’d been married before, or someone who was as adventurous or risk-taking themselves. This view though-- our relationship-- is better than anything I ever saw promised on a map. While it took climbing on hands and knees to get to where we are… we made it. And to think, I almost missed my sign (again)!

I wanted to share this “aftermath” with you to tell you it is okay to struggle. It is okay to sit down and be bewildered for a while, to stop and gasp for air or scream into the oblivion out of frustration. It is okay if you fall, even if you have to start over. I wanted you to hear from someone, from me right here right now, that everyone struggles. Sometimes I wish it weren’t this way, but, could we ever appreciate the final destination if we didn’t struggle along the path? Of course, no two ascents look the same, but knowing you are not moving along alone, isolated, is sometimes the most comforting thing you can hear. Even when it looks like you’re alone, like no one is out there, they are. There are at least signs, guideposts, to point you on. 

Sometimes you just need to hear about someone else getting lost to know it’s normal and you can keep going. Your burden might seem exclusive to you, but we all have our hurdles to cross, and we all stumble. We are all learning resilience and endurance at the end of the day. This is my attempt at encouraging you via my experience to stand up again, keep climbing my child. I pray that my sharing of these trialsome years full of twisting trails gives you some solace, some sense of relief and calm. You’re not going to be lost forever. But you have to look up and look around. You may be standing right by a sign that can show you the way out. It might not even look like a way to go at all, but it might just be your ticket to the top.