No one ever told me that one day my greatest enemy might be my own biochemistry. There's little preparation for the realization you may be living with a mental illness.
Since I was 16, my daily moods were marred by cycles of exuberant laughter, unbearable sadness, hasty and unhealthy all-nighters, and days of listless recuperation. Living with a mood disorder is a constant battle to regulate these extremes. At university, this behaviour exacerbated my stress well into my second year.
My first visit to campus counselling services was the result of a spiralling depression. As my latest mood swing became prolonged, I cut myself off from every friend who tried to help. Finally, one day I skipped classes to wait in psychological intake.
The counsellor who saw me consulted three textbooks before giving up without answers. I left feeling like a lost cause. I would return a year later, encouraged by a close friend. My second psychologist was stern and promising, but shortly after moved her practice without warning. Again, I felt discarded.
Eventually, my mania reached a new peak - risk-seeking, rapidly pulsing behaviour that saw me wandering the back streets of Whyte Avenue at 4 in the morning. This prompted my third reluctant visit to the campus clinic. I landed in a room with a khaki-wearing, bike-riding psychiatrist who reminded me of Owen Wilson, the movie star. He casually inquired into the reason for my visit.
"I think I'm bipolar," I blurted out. It was something I'd only said out loud once before.
"That sounds serious," he replied, and then added: "What do you want to do about it?"
I had never been asked anything like that. My previous counsellors had given up and I realized that a part of me had always given up with them.
"I want to get better," I said finally. He smiled.
Owen diagnosed a mood disorder and started me on a light medication that acted as a barometer of what I would need. Every session with him reminded me that I was in control of my treatment, that how I felt was real. Owen started to convince me that I had made the right decision to seek help.
Eventually he had an idea to start me on a relatively new therapy. A risk, of course, but it was ultimately up to me.
"Well," I said, "isn't living like this worse than any side- effect?"
That night, I broke the seal on the first blister pack of a new drug. When I woke, I felt more conscious than ever before. There was no painful undercurrent of suicidal ideation, no body‑bind of lethargy, no dead-end restlessness. My mind felt strangely and wonderfully wide.
By the time I made it back to Owen's office, I felt like a person for the first time in my life. With his help I learned to make choices that weren't rooted in self-hatred - choices that could potentially make me feel something I had only coveted: happiness. When I graduated, I also left Owen's care but his lessons remain - I still ask for help when I need it, and I am no less of a person for doing so.
In September 2017, the Government of Alberta announced $1 million in mental health funding for the U of A, which bolsters ongoing mental health programs that support students. If you or someone you know needs help now, visit uab.ca/needhelp or call 780-492-4773. Learn more about campus programs and resources to support student mental health here.
Nisha is an Indo-Canadian poet, artist, and public speaker in Edmonton, Alberta. She is the current Poet Laureate for the City of Edmonton. You can find out more about her at nishapatel.ca.
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