Day 35 of 100

“Someone has finally figured out what is wrong with me.”

My therapist had been telling me for years that I should go get checked out for bipolar. My depressions were bad and my manic episodes accelerating. I figured most of it had to do with my addiction issues, but I had stopped doing anything for almost two years.

“I don’t think it is just depression,” he would tell me.

“There is nothing wrong with me.”

That was the lie I kept repeating. I knew that there was something wrong. That “normal” people didn’t get depressed the way I did. Didn’t have a constant case of suicidal ideation. Wouldn’t bounce off the walls when their energy was high. But I just didn’t want to admit it.

Finally, after years of suggesting I go to see a psychiatrist, I relented. I found one in Boulder, CO that was considered to be an expert on bipolar.

On April 1, 2008, exactly two years to the day that I stopped drinking and doing drugs, I saw Dr. Wood.

His office was nice and very Boulder. A small man from South America, he was gentle and kind. “Sit down here,” he suggested.

For the next hour, he asked me questions.

“Do you ever hear your name called in a crowd, but no one is calling your name?” Always.

“Do you ever smell oil burning but there is nothing aflame?” Always.

“Do you ever think your cat is still on your lap after she left.” Always.

“Do you think you see people when they aren’t really there?” I am certain I have ESP.

Question after question my answer was yes. Finally he stopped. He explained to me that I had a defect in my brain. It was not firing properly. It was no different than any other long-term injury. He said it could be managed with medication, and we would start right away.

I walked outside and climbed into my car. Sat down and called my mom. Through tears I said, “Mom, someone finally figured out what was wrong with me.”