New York City, 1996.

19 years old.

My mind would get so full it was almost blinding. My vision literally blurred. My thoughts raced and piled on top of one another until there wasn’t room for anything else. I could literally feel the pressure in my brain. It made me tired, but the aching energy in my mind fizzled on.

It kept me from focusing on anything else. My level of functioning was completely broken. Project after project was abandoned. Job after job was lost. I couldn’t finish anything. I obsessed over thoughts that made me feel good until they almost became delusions. Or maybe they were delusions. I thought I just wasn’t focused. That I was inept. I could not figure out what was wrong with me. But it was clear something was not right.

I vividly remember walking around the corner and turning on to Broadway. I was in Morningside Heights, walking toward the tip of the island. Maybe self-sabotage is the issue, I thought. Maybe I have a fear of success. But why, I couldn’t figure out. I was constantly rolling possibilities around in my mind, trying to fit pieces together. I wanted to know why I couldn’t finish anything. I wanted to learn to function. I wanted to be normal. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t normal. Dear God, help me be normal, I prayed.

By the time I moved to Manhattan, I had already dropped out of school twice. I had already lost several jobs, too. I thought I was a horrible loser. I hated myself. I was sure everyone else hated me too. I thought the nasty thoughts I had were shared by those around me.

I would never amount to anything.

I had moved to New York because I wanted to prove to myself that I could do something amazing. I wanted to do something I was sure nobody thought I could do. Everybody thought I was inept. I had always wanted to live there. I thought it was something I would understand…a place where I would feel understood. And it was. And I did. But I was still horribly depressed and exceedingly lonely. Yet I had wanted to leave everyone in my life behind. I had wanted to be myself. I was so solitary. It gave me a chance to hide, though, and I relished that.

Hiding was necessary.

Hiding is something I learned to do when the terror inside me grew too big. I had been doing it for years in the form of trying to avoid school. When I graduated, I was no longer forced to go anywhere, so sometimes I just didn’t. It became too hard. No, it became impossible. And I was unduly hard on myself. Being sick left me feeling overly sensitive. I was raw all the time. A relentless cycle of guilt and shame made the situation worse.

So, if I missed work one day, I would become extremely frightened. Overly anxious. And I would mentally pummel myself over it. Because I didn’t understand why I was missing work in the first place, I wouldn’t want to call and tell them I wasn’t coming in. And I would feel overly guilty about that. The shame would just destroy me. Inside, I knew there was something terribly wrong with me that kept me from doing what I was supposed to do. Logically, though, I thought I should be able to function on a daily level. I was physically capable. Part of me thought I was smart. It just didn’t make any sense. Why was it so easy for everybody else?

The more ashamed and guilty I became, the more it paralyzed me. Usually if I missed one day of work and didn’t call in, then I would miss another and another until I was sure I couldn’t go back at all. I would never answer the phone at these times. I would avoid anyone having to do with my job. Sometimes, I would start to only leave the house at night.

I was in hiding.

Looking back, I know I was sick. My mind was confused and my body was in pain. I was in full bipolar swing and had been for years. It affected everything I did and every relationship I had. I just had no idea. I had been told that I was lazy and unrealistic, so that is what I believed. But I constantly struggled inside. Trying to make sense of something that made absolutely no sense was eating me alive.