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The Wrong Equation

Let's see, last we really  talked, I was seemingly a diagnosed bipolar mother who was struggling to figure out medication, love, family, and sorrowful past.
Let me tell you though, there was something buried deep within me that I did not show to any of you. In fact, I found out in September of 2017 that I was not bipolar at all. That everything, every  single  little  detail  of pain and chaos was not due to a mood-disorder at all, but due to an underlying trauma that I refused to acknowledge or accept.
I was the one who suggested to my doctors and psychiatrist that I was bipolar. 

Now you may ask, "Sage, why on Earth would you want to be diagnosed with a mood-disorder?!" To which I would reply, "I needed an explanation."

In that time of my life, when everything was anger and pain, when I couldn't see past my trauma, when the trauma was screaming louder than my own thoughts, I needed an explanation. I needed the solution to the equation. 
If X + Me = Suffering, then what is X?  I refused X to be my trauma. And it only made sense that "I was bipolar" because of my immense ups and downs. My emotional instability. My delusion that I was fine and could be better on my own.

But September 2017 came and along with it came the truth. Not just a truth but a truth that needed to be acknowledged and accepted. And I had no choice but to face it too, because I found myself 51/50'd and two hours from my home and family. 

For three years, I was doing everything in my power to push away the trauma that was screaming at me. I was taking medications I shouldn't have even been on. I was trying so hard to rid of the person I was at the time for someone that was more relatable and understood in the world. Someone who wouldn't be pitied. Someone who didn't have something so horrible and dark happen to her, just a mood-disorder she was born with...because that could explain it all, right?


I was so  wrong. Everything backfired tremendously. I ended up not sleeping for five months, causing visual and auditory hallucinations towards the end of my stint, and weight loss due to lack of appetite. Paranoid thoughts, and uncontrollable crying at the drop of a hat. So yeah, I ended up 51/50'd two hours from my home and family, with my mom and dad wondering WHAT THE HELL  happened to get me into the place I found myself. Yes, both my mom and dad were unaware of this trauma that had occurred. This was my rock bottom, guys, and I was stuck in a psychiatric facility forced to find the solution to my equation.

Childhood Rape + Me = Suffering

This was no longer a mood disorder. This was deep, angering, agonizing trauma. Doped up on anti-psychotics and sleep meds. Hiding under six blankets. Haunted by the demon that was my abuser. Asking me to face him. And all I wanted was my son. My little David. To just hold him and stay in that moment with him forever. 

I felt embarrassed. Ashamed. Guilty. Angry. And so fucking alone. 

At night, I would be so scared in my dark room. I wanted my mom to hold me. The way I wanted to hold David. And as the sleep meds kicked in, I found myself drifting off, in fear that my demon would consume me that night.

I was there for six days. Each day got a little easier, until night time when it was time for meds. But I had six days to think. Six days to feel. Six days to listen to my demon.

Psychiatric Facility + Me = Help

I came to terms with a lot. And I knew that I wasn't crazy, for once I finally fucking knew I wasn't crazy. I finally admitted to myself that I was not bipolar. I was not psychotic. I was traumatized. And I really needed to tell my mom (and dad) about what happened, and why I ended up in the psychiatric facility. I needed to get off all these meds STAT too. I needed to begin my healing journey.

It was only about last month or so when I finally felt 100% acceptance of my childhood rape. And yes, we're calling it as it is, because it's nothing less. It was only last year when I was finally able to write it out-loud. There are many, many draft here on blogger about this that I never had the balls to publish. I was scared. And ashamed. I felt embarrassed. And I didn't want any one of you to see the me who I was seeing at the time: a rape victim. A bipolar fraud.

Look, I'm not saying that the mood-instability I was experiencing wasn't real. To me, it felt like I truly was bipolar. It's half the reason I brought it up to my doctors and psychiatrist. It DID fit with my puzzle. But even though it fit, that piece came from another puzzle that did not belong to me. And I apologize for that, whole-heartedly. It's incredible how an unresolved trauma can literally make you go crazy. It also makes me wonder how many people out there are diagnosed with something completely inaccurate when maybe they're dealing with unresolved trauma themselves. 

I am thankful for the psychiatric experience. As hard as it was to get through, it saved my fucking life. And I needed that.

Each day that passes, my roots grow stronger and healthier. I have forgiven.

Time + Me  x  Forgiveness = Healing     


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