Nearly a year ago, I was branded with the diagnosis of Bipolar type II. The doctor had seen me a total of three times, over the course of three days, before she came to this utterly preposterous conclusion. Because of my family’s history of the illness (my mother was most likely misdiagnosed), it’s slightly understandable why she jumped to this conclusion, but it’s less forgivable because of the fact that she began a cycle of medications to treat a nonexistent disease. To say that I am spiteful about this would be an understatement.
With a few scribbled words, this (irritatingly arrogant) doctor shoved me into an ill-fitting flame-resistant suit. And when I challenged her diagnosis, I was most obviously in denial, according to her. No matter what I said—no matter what my parents said—there was no escaping this mess that she created. Even worse, another doctor, with having spoken with me once, confirmed my fate.
From October 21st through the 28th, I was stuck in the hospital with everyone against me. I was forced to watch propaganda-like videos on Bipolar disorder. My parents even bought into the nonsense eventually. I was frustrated. Frustrated doesn’t even begin to explain it. I felt claustrophobic, and I was told over and over that I was completely incapable of living my life “properly” because of this label.
During my brief bipolar stage, I learned how stupid doctors could be. That’s a very close-minded statement, I am aware, but it holds a significant amount of truth for me. No matter how hard I tried to disprove the diagnosis, I was always in “denial.” I couldn’t be anyone else. The majority of doctors didn’t even think that I could cope with it, this imaginary illness.
I was powerless to the various drugs I was prescribed. They manipulated my mind and my personality until the doctors were satisfied. By this point, the flame-resistant suit had become woven into my skin. There was no separating myself from the giant stamp on my forehead that read “BIPOLAR.”
There was no hope to “recover.” I was branded for life, according to many, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it except take various medications, all of which happened to screw my life up even more.
Never before have I felt so helpless.
There was no break. I couldn’t escape who they said I was. The “professionals” who talked to me were strange. They don’t know how to talk to people. They barked about how I am stupid for rejecting their ideas. They created this bizarre concept of the “disease” controlling my actions, yet when my actions were “bad,” I was at fault.
I had to live with this, occasionally believing it, until this past April when it was confirmed that I am most certainly not bipolar. I could probably ruin the reputation of several doctors in the Phoenix area by now, particularly the one who started it all.
But I won’t. I don’t know why, but I refuse to do that.
Things have changed, now. We thankfully found a way to dispose of the suit. (Turns out that scissors work quite nicely.)
It's over now, and I can breathe—at least occasionally (532).
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