I once believed that there was something wrong with me. I was different from those around me on a level which I didn’t understand. I was scared. I was confused. I was deliriously happy, excited, full of energy, and lacking sleep and proper nutrition. I talked more than anyone I know and the words streamed from my mouth with no filter; straight out of my mind, with no regard for the outcome or the feelings and reactions of those around me.
I was living in Savannah at the time, attending high school. I was a freshman, so I was already anxious about meeting new people and stressed about getting good grades. There was more, though.
I had excellent grades, and was hyper focused. Teachers didn’t know how to respond to my special behavior. I wasn’t unruly. I just acted very oddly.
In my Algebra class, I sat on the floor and stretched my legs. I was paying attention, so the teacher let it slide. In my English class, my handwriting was all kinds of sloppy and covered in tears, but I understood concepts and was a bright student, so the teacher took no notice.
I was awkward and lacked certain social skills. I couldn’t connect fully with the kids in my class. I passed out Mardi Gras beads to students who seemed they needed me to “brighten their day,” including students I didn’t know. I quickly earned the name “Bead Girl.”
I carried a lunch box full of small toys with me to all of my classes. I put the moves on a couple of guys who had no interest in getting to know me better. Even then, I understood why. I felt–and thought– I was weird. Broken, even.
Once, I went to a soccer tournament with my team. None of the girls were super friendly to me, but by then, that was what I had come to expect. During a game, I was on the side lines and went to the concession stand. I asked the boy behind the counter if he would hold my tiara while I played my game. He asked me where I was from and I told him, “Heaven.”
When my coach did put me in the game, it was raining and the field was very muddy. I took advantage of that by doing somersaults with my playing time. I was quickly removed and placed on the side lines for the rest of the day.
Time passed. I remained in the dark about what was going on with me, and then for a while I was stable. But that didn’t last forever. When the summer after my sophomore year in high school arrived, the presence of “Berman” surfaced once more. It was unbearable.
My family and I decided to seek professional help, and I learned about psychiatry. I rode on the back of my dad’s motorcycle to the doctor’s office, and for the first time, I felt a glimmer of hope.
After a few minutes, the psychiatrist stamped a label on my head. I had Bipolar I Disorder! It was a thing! A real thing! A treatable illness! I finally found the answer to a long suffering problem. Relief like none I have seen before or since washed over me, filling me with the truth that I was not alone, and that there was really nothing wrong with me.
It has been a battle. There is no cure. But I can say that knowing is better than suffering alone or in silence. Remember who you are, and don’t let Berman win.
I have been completely honest with you. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to email me or to comment. There is no reason to be afraid. Own it.
–SJB