The day is September 13th. In June I started a new antidepressant. The new medication did not help. It backfired. And though I knew that I should talk with my psychiatrist and stop taking it, I shrugged my shoulders and kept on. I stood by and observed. Watched as I began to come undone. Slowly and quietly.

I need to mention that the most common class of antidepressants (SSRIs) can be a risky play when used to help treat bipolar disorder. They can cause the symptoms of bipolar disorder to become more severe. This has been the case for me in the past. And it happened again. I was fully aware of what was happening, but given my unhealthy head space I chose not to immediately address the issue.

My mental health continued to deteriorate throughout the summer. The branch upon which my sanity rested became weaker. It shook. It cracked. It broke. And I started to fall.

An August night found me creating a reminder alarm for the next day. “Get help,” it read. In the 3 a.m moonlight of the backyard, with a swollen and bruised hand I realized that some things needed to change. A hand feeling the effects of bashing my closed fist against the trunk of a tree. Over and over again. I carried wounds elsewhere too. The product of late nights with junk food from 7-Eleven and a bedroom full of ill will directed at myself. Old habits and ugly ways of finding peace were resurfacing. I ignored my new alarm for a few days. But eventually I gave in. Not because I wanted to help myself, I was doing a fine job of tearing myself apart, and getting rather hooked with the process.

Beyond the lens of my own illness, I knew that there were a lot of people who would hurt if they knew the condition I was in. And it was only a matter of time until they found out, sooner or later my terrible condition would start to surface. And all because I was feeling reckless and irresponsible. I did not have much love left for myself, but still I knew that there were others who still did. I know that life isn’t always about what I want, sometimes it’s about holding myself accountable for those around me. These were the things that led me to swallow my pride and get the help I needed.

I got on the phone with my psychiatrist because I wanted to protect those around me. But with time I can now appreciate how important it was for own sake. With the clouds of self hatred dissipating, it is now clear that I do care for myself. I value myself. I am glad that I made the necessary steps to stop the slide, giving me the opportunity to continue to build, to live.

The day is September 13th. All of my physical wounds are nearly healed. I had to stop my new prescription because it was giving me dizzy spells. I’m okay with that. I am just happy that I was able to get off the antidepressant that played a key role in causing me a lot of trouble. I also redecorated my room, as if to help chase away the dark magic that was growing in the enclosed space.

I am looking forward to the changing of the seasons. Summer can be pretty tough for me, moods can get pretty unpredictable. I think that the colder air gives me more clarity and focus.

I wrote a few drafts over the summer about how I was feeling. I never finished or posted any of them. The struggle was too personal, too intimate. Time helps to heal wounds. Wounds of all kinds. Now that I am distanced from the situation, I understand that it is important to share this bump in the road. Life is full of them. And I can be vulnerable to falling prey to my illness. However, I can also fight back. We all can.