Trigger Warnings: abuse, manipulation, love-bombing, narcissist, mental illness, cheating, trauma, suicidal ideation
I waited for daylight before I got dressed. In the the very early hours of that morning, I left my dorm room to go to the only public mental hospital in the Philippines. It's the National Center for Mental Health (NCMH) in Mandaluyong.
At that time, I left my dorm without a word to my landlady of roommates. All I was wearing was a ratty t shirt and ripped shorts with slippers. My hair was unkempt and untidy. The heaviness in my heart was overwhelming.Then I hailed a cab outside my dorm.
“Where to?” the cab driver asked me casually.
“Mandaluyong Mental Hospital,” I answered. My voice was quivering.
All I had on me was PHP 5,000 inside my wallet and my phone. But I’ve already lost the will to live.
He looked confused but he nodded for me to get in. I got inside the cab and called my brother’s girlfriend because I was desperate to talk to somebody who care about me.
Why I didn't call my parents or siblings is still a mystery to me. Perhaps because I was already in trapped in that line of thinking wherein my ex-boyfriend, Reggie, drilled into me that I was nobody, I was worthless and I was not worth helping.
But I needed help and I didn’t know where to go. Faye told me to go to the Psychiatric ER. She told me that I was already in crisis mode and I needed to be helped ASAP. As you know, there's no suicide hotline in the Philippines and there's no 911. Going to the mental hospital for being this close to suicide is the only option left for me/
I nodded obediently even though she couldn't see the tears streaming down my face.
The cab dropped me off inside the mental hospital at the Psychiatric ER. I vaguely remember approaching the nurse’s station and telling them that I wanted to kill myself right now. My lip was quivering and my whole body was trembling.
Two burly orderlies immediately escorted me into a cot and hid me from view with curtains. I started crying really hard and they tried to cheer me up. But the tears just won’t stop.
A doctor came to check on me after some time while I was crying in my cot with the curtains drawn for privacy. But I don't really care anymore because I'm in a room full of other people who also badly needed help.
We started to talk and the things that I’ve kept inside of me for such a long time started to spill out.
I cried all throughout the interview.
The things that I’ve kept inside of me for such a long time started to spill out:
- I aborted a baby. Am I going to jail or hell?
- The baby's dad, Reggie, (my ex boyfriend) was a liar and abusive. He hid the truth from me! He was married! I was a mistress for more than a year and I didn’t know it!
- My mom and dad separated this February. I’m scared for my siblings. Hell, I’m scared for myself.
- My dad has a substance abuse problem and he kept a mistress for 3 years!
- I cannot get promoted at work.
- I don’t have savings because I spend it on food and nice clothes.
- There are days when I just cry in my bed and I don’t want to move.
- I haven’t slept in 4 months.
- Nikon has anger issues. He’s so toxic and he tried to break up with me three times just because of my intense mood swings.
- I was raped in the past. The most recent one was in December 2015. I was raped four times by different men who preyed on my drunken weakness.
- Is there something wrong with me? I’ve slept with 40+ men so far.
- I might have AIDS (!)
- I really, really want to die right now. Please kill me now.
- Please help me.
As the doctor listened to me, I had the vaguest feeling that my current situation was not just caused by depression.
There was something else there.
I told him about the men, the endless shopping sprees, the drinking and my risky sexual adventures. My libido was just like an 18-year-old male and my sexual partners were already in the double digits even though I was only 26-years-old.
On the other end of the spectrum, I suffered from depression for months on end. I was always anxious so I never slept properly. My mind raced like cars competing in a Monte Carlo race track.
My mind was full of dark, evil and suicidal thoughts that led me to overeat, overspend and seek temporary respite from myself.
When I told him about the men and my risky sexual adventures, he shot out of his chair to grab my file from the front desk to update it ASAP.
I tried to listen to the doctor through a groggy haze as he explained that my behavior and life choices was caused by Bipolar Disorder 1.
The psychiatrist kindly explained that my life choices was caused by Bipolar Disorder 1. I was depressed because my mania finally stopped. It was why I was so sad and why I couldn’t move forward from my traumas. My grief only made everything worse.
Upon hearing the diagnosis, I felt like I was finally vindicated. There was something wrong with me. I wasn't imagining it. I wasn't a hypochondriac. I had a diagnosis that finally explained why I was like this, why I chose my decisions and why I was engaging in risky coping mechanisms.
Putting a name to the faceless, invisible illness that plagued me felt like the work of God.
He explained that I was depressed right now because my mania finally went away. I also remember him telling me kindly that I should get well soon and I shouldn’t lose hope.
Then I fell asleep because they gave me a sedative.
Nikon picked me up from the hospital when I woke up a few hours later. I don’t remember telling him to come and pick me up.
But I know that I specifically asked not to be committed inside the hospital because nobody will be there for me. It just goes to show how alone I felt because I chose the last person in the world to come and get me.
I was also dimly aware of the fact that a stay inside the mental hospital was going to destroy any chance for a normal life.
My ex took me back to my family on the same day. I can't even talk about how he treated me after picking me up from the ER. Let's just say that he damaged me even more by taking out his anger and insensitivity on me.
When I got home to my parent's house, I stayed with them for two months. I finally broke my communication with Nikon because I couldn't deal with him anymore.
So I quit my job, started taking my meds and wondering what to do with my life.
I also did my research on my condition. Apparently, my uncontrolled shopping sprees, grandiose ideas and unrestrained spending was because of mania. I was starting lots of mini projects and finishing none of them. I was always semi-aggressive and full of tension whenever I dealt with people. My libido was just like an 18-year-old male so I looked for sex all the time. I had a larger body count when it came to sex than my peers.
It also explained why I wanted to die at 14-years-old, my angsty fanfics and feelings of emptiness. It was the reason why I was so sad all the time and why I couldn’t move forward from my trauma. My grief made it worse.
My favorite auntie took me to a private hospital to see a psychiatrist for a second opinion. The result was still the same. Her heart broke when she found out about my abusive relationship and my abortion. She hugged me afterwards and told me that our family will always be there for me.
Upon hearing the same diagnosis from my psychiatrist, I decided to accept the illness so I could move on with my life.
I started taking a mood stabilizer with an antidepressant. The antidepressant was also a mild sedative that I have to take so I could sleep at night.
I accepted that I will have to take medication for the rest of my life to take care of the chemical imbalance inside my brain and to lessen the intensity of my mood swings.
Taking medications for my illness helps me manage it. Just think about a diabetic who needs a daily insulin shot.
My brain was missing neurotransmitters. The meds provide that missing chemical so my brain could work properly. That’s why I have to take them at the same time everyday to avoid a relapse.
My mother took me walking around a park every afternoon so I could get out of the house. Getting endorphins into my brain was also a goal. Distracting me from the darkness and the suicidal ideations was number one in her agenda.
When I started to feel a bit better, I decided to come back to Manila to work. I felt so guilty for being a burden to my family and I was tired of feeling sorry for myself. I didn't want to depend on my impoverished family to provide me with money and support for my entire life.
I didn't want to be their burden. I didn't want to be the reason why my mother and three siblings would struggle. I didn't want to destroy my life and theirs in the same breath.
Going back to work was the only option for me. I decided to go back to working in the call center because it was the only industry that I knew. It was the only job that could give me enough money to buy meds, pay for my psychiatrist visits and suppot my family.
I thought that I'll be able to manage it because I have meds, I have a diagnosis and I have a mood diary. I promised myself that I'll keep up with my monthly appointments with my psychiatrist and try to visit Father Ben more often. I told myself that having bipolar disorder doesn't mean I won't get the chance to have a normal life.
Guess what? My mania came back with a vengeance.
By September 2016, I started a new job in Quezon City, I jumped into an apartment with girls I barely knew at work, I began a relationship with a guy I’ve only known for two weeks (Max) and I started swiping my credit card like crazy.
It all happened again at the same time. Of course, I was in denial that it was Manic Mimi who was running the show.
I thought that I was so sad for the past few months that it’s normal to feel really good about yourself. It’s OK to feel energetic and happy. There are good things happening for me so I should be happy.
Yup, I was so delusional back then. Thanks to my mania, I had enough energy to come to work on time, perform my tasks and shine.
I was so ecstatic and so in love with life that I didn't notice that I was starting to derail my own grip in sanity.
My family situation was getting worse until my parents finally separated for good so I decided not to focus on something I couldn’t control.
In a flash of brilliance, I focused my attention to my job and my deadbeat, useless and opportunist boyfriend, Max. I also applied for a supervisor position, I moved into my own apartment (Belle Reve) and I ate my feelings away.
I loved my apartment in that nice, middle class neighborhood in Quezon City even though it was very small. I love the ambiance of the place, the nice landlady and the convenience it provided to me. I think I maxed out my credit card in getting the essentials like a sofa bed, a ref, a dining table and other little things. But it was my first home, my first private space and my first major investment.
Of course, Max didn't waste any time in moving into my private sanctuary within 3 months. I was stupid into thinking that it was going to bring our relationship into the next level. No, it didn't. It only opened me up to a vulnerable position because Max took advantage of my kindness and decided to use me as his personal credit line.
Nobody knew that I paid for the rent, the utilities, the groceries, the dates and the travels. Nobody knew that Max always promised to pay me for the things he owed but he never did. He never picked up the bill, never paid for his half of the expenses and always used his enrollment at a local college as the reason why he didn't have any extra money. Max was a leech and he took advantage of my generosity for the whole year-long relationship.
At work, my bosses liked me but they didn't like me enough to promote me once they learned about my mental illness. I was immediately disqualified from a supervisory position because of it.
In fact, bipolar disorder will find a way to destroy my chances at any kind of promotion, job offer and job opportunities.
I've had numerous BPO companies withdraw their job offers when they learned about my mental illness in my pre-employment medical procedures and/or terminated me just because I missed work days when I was depressed. But we'll talk about that at another time.
You should take note that I was still taking my meds. Let me tell you that just because I’m on meds doesn’t mean that I’m stable. I was very, very far from it. The higher I went, the harder I fell.
There was no escape from Manic Mimi and her vice-like grip on my neck.
To be continued.
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