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Getting Help
by Cara Hansen
I guess I knew something was wrong even before I was a teenager. I can remember the exact
moment, what the weather was like, where I was standing - everything - the moment I absolutely
knew something was very, very wrong. It was scary. It was also funny. I clearly
remember that five minutes later, I was back home acting fine as can be just minutes after being
in such a desperate spot. I couldn't understand it, so I kept it to myself.
I look back now and I can't even image why a child or a teenager would feel that bad, but they
can. It's good that kids' symptoms of a mental illness are being recognized earlier now.
I had lots of stomachaches in those days, so the doctor gave me medicine to combat the
aches. But what I didn't mention to the doctor was that I was also always terribly worried
about everything. Not a normal worry, an extreme worry. My thoughts were always
racing. I always felt sad, tired and strange. I became really good at hiding i
t. I was the oldest child, an overachiever and perfectionist. I always worked really
hard not to let anyone know that I was "defective." That's what I called it
then.
In college, I was "diagnosed" with anorexia. But, I didn't have anorexia. I
knew that then, but I was too tired to get a second opinion. I just wouldn't eat. It
was a way that I could punish myself for being "defective." I did the same thing
by making cuts into my arms. I knew these were very strange behaviors, but I had no idea it
might actually be a treatable illness. I just felt like a freak and I wasn't about to tell
anyone.
Anyway, I resisted treatment even when it was offered. My mom took me to see my doctor, and
once even a psychologist. But of course it didn't work because at the time I didn't
care. I would quit taking my medication or miss my appointments.
Being on my own in college didn't help matters. There were lots of different kinds of
totally reckless, self-destructive behavior I exhibited. From drinking to sleeping all day
and staying up all night to acting out and having huge ups and huge downs. I can't even
really describe what those years were like. It was awful.
When I was in college in Oshkosh, there was a group of people who always called me The Crazy
Girl. In fact, for years I wouldn't even go back to Oshkosh because I was embarrassed and
thought I might run into one of them.
There were some semesters when I wouldn't even go to class. Every once in a while, the
resident assistant would talk to me. She would ask me if I felt suicidal. At that
time I wouldn't have told her even if I were, because I still didn't care. I regret those
years. I love learning and school. I think I would have really loved a more regular
college experience.
I moved to Milwaukee in 1988 to start fresh and not be The Crazy Girl anymore. I was going
to the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, and those were two really good and happy years. I
guess I didn't have many bad cycles. I graduated, after lots of years of stops and starts,
and got a job in human resources at a bank. This is where the story of my recovery starts.
A few years into my job, I decided to call the employee assistance program. I don't know
exactly why I first called. I guess because I noticed things started going downhill again
and I didn't want to lose my job. It was a big step. The therapist recommended that I
see a psychiatrist. I did.
She diagnosed me with bipolar, and I started getting treatment.
Still, it took a long time for me to get the right medication. Over the years, I'd be
really happy one minute and very sad a few hours later. Not a normal level of happy or sad,
extreme. There were days when I could not get out of bed until 5 or 6 at night. It
took energy just to open my eyes or turn over in bed. I had a pet rabbit and, I swear, some
days I only got out of bed to feed the rabbit.
Other times, I couldn't stop thinking or slow my head down. Sometimes I'd talk
endlessly. I couldn't focus or concentrate. I never slept. To me, the best
thing to happen was when I finally accepted the fact that I have a mental illness, to stick with
treatment, and, finally, to be OK with the fact that it was just that - an illness. Doing
all that took a long time, but I'm better now because of it.
I didn't tell anyone for so long and kept things hidden because of what I thought other people
would think. I hope that other people will speak up sooner if they need to. I know
now that I will still have mood swings, but now I also know that they won't last forever, and
they won't get the best of me. I have a great doctor and a great psychologist who I know
will help me when I need to adjust my treatment. I take my medication and I get counseling.
One thing I have to say is that I've been extremely fortunate to have had medical insurance and
been able to have consistent treatment over the past several years. Not everyone has that
"luxury." I think that things would have turned out very differently for me if I
hadn't had insurance. There is no way I could have paid the full price for my medication.
My mental illness will always be with me. It took a long time for me to get out of denial,
accept it, and be OK with it.
I've been doing well for several years now. I own my own home. I have a good
job. Friends and family. I no longer think of myself as "defective."
I have an illness that is real and treatable.
The evidence says that the best way for people to learn more about mental illness and to break
down stereotypes is to know someone who has a mental illness. And, most people do that
without even realizing it. Things like depression and anxiety are more common than people
know or will admit. It could be the person in the cubicle next to yours at work or someone
who lives down the block, or a family member - or you. For some reason it often seems to
surprise people when they find out I have bipolar. And if, for whatever reason, people can
relate to me and my experience, learn more about mental illnesses, or change their stereotypes,
I'm glad about that.
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