In this blog, I share pieces of my life story. From childhood to teenage years up to my adult years. As someone with a mental health diagnosis, I want to show there’s more to a person than just being labeled with a mental health condition.

A lot goes into where I am now at in my personal recovery journey and my point to telling my story is to show others a diagnosis of mental illness or for me having bipolar, depression, anxiety, ptsd, history of addictions and being in recovery for workout anorexia doesn’t define me, but is and will always be a piece of me I have learned to live with on a daily basis.

My story, at times, can be triggering or stressful to read, so I need to give that warning. I am open and honest about my life, from the good to the bad and traumas I’ve experienced throughout my life. If you get easily triggered or stressed with other people’s traumas, I advise that my story may not be best for you to read.

My goal when this blog is complete is to turn it into a book. As a mental wellness advocate I want people such as psychiatrist, nurse practitioners, PEERS, fellow mental health advocates, workers in psych wards and anyone who could benefit from seeing the person behind the diagnosis and be more understanding and compassionate towards people who have a mental health diagnosis.

I’m not bipolar I have bipolar and other symptoms associated with it. I hope my story can shine a light on what is so deeply stigmatized in society.

If you are comfortable and going forward to read my story, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Feel free to also share this blog with others.

If you can relate to my story, just know you are not alone.

Once I found my comfort in advocating for mental wellness, I felt my story was an important story to tell. Not everything I advocate on is only to show the bad side of my experiences, but I also hope to show all the good as well.

Advocating can change the system for the better.

Everyone has a story, and this blog is mine.

In 1999, I had just graduated from high school. It was close to the end of June, and I was working my second summer at my town pool.

I absolutely loved this job. I was an arts and crafts counselor, recreation department worker, as well as a front desk worker who checked in patrons daily.

On breaks, I would head over to the snack bar for lunch or snacks. This particular year, there was a new person running the snack bar. He was a 45 year old man. For legal sake, even though I doubt this man would read my blog let’s call him Don. He seemed nice at first, but soon, he started to hit on me and say things that made me feel uncomfortable. I never thought to report him. I just blew it all off as him just being some creepy older man.

As much as I loved this job, that quickly changed, though, in what seemed like a matter of seconds.

One day, I was sitting at the front desk checking in patrons. I recall sitting with my legs crossed. In walked Don. He walked right up to me said hey sexy then he ran his hand up the inner part of my thigh and touched me where he shouldn’t have. I panicked, froze, then jumped up and ran to tell my boss.

My boss said he would handle the situation, and he doesn’t want me to get the town police involved. So then I immediately ran to the pay phone and called my dad.

I explained in a shaky voice that I was just sexually assaulted by the man who runs the snack bar. My father asked if I told my boss. I said yes, and he said my boss would handle it, and I’m making it out to be more of a big deal than it was.

Not really how I hoped that conversation would go, but I guess I was always used to my father not being very fazed by much in life.

After I got off the phone with my father, my boss called me in his office. He said he spoke to Don and told him he can’t come near me. I said I think this man should be fired. My boss said that’s not going to happen, and told me to take the rest of the day off.

I went home and cried in my room. I felt so gross from being sexually assaulted. I was so angry about the entire situation and even more angry that Don got away with it.

The next day, I had off from work, so even though my boss told me not to get the police involved, I decided to go to the police station to report this. When I reported it, the cop I spoke with said “well young lady it’s your word against his, so there isn’t much we can do about it.” I was in shock that was even being a response from a police officer.

As I walked out of the police station furious, another cop came up to me and said he heard my conversation. He asked where I worked and who this man was. I told him everything he wanted to know. He said “don’t worry I’ll handle”

The next day, I had work. I was taken off front desk duty since the incident. My boss said he wants to keep the distance between Don and I. So I stuck with my other jobs.

As I was walking to go to the bathroom, I saw the cop I spoke with walk over to the snack bar. He asked the snack bar guy to step over to the picnic area to talk. All I remember is seeing the cop slam Don into the fence and hear him say “ If you ever touch that girl again, I’ll hurt you and make sure you end up getting arrested!”

At that moment, I was happy at least one person was on my side throughout this whole ordeal.

As days went on, I kept seeing the snack bar guy. I started to get severe anxiety that got worse and worse every day I went to work.

One night after work, my two friends asked me to hang out. So we went to my guy friends house. He said “let’s do ecstasy.” He said this would take my mind off all the stress I felt from what happened.

So I took the pill from him. In the moment, I felt great and happy again. I was able to block it from my mind, but that didn’t last very long.

Within hours, I had a panic attack. I was paranoid, and the snack bar guy was following me. I was overwhelmed with anxiety.

This anxiety worsened, and my mind spiraled out of control. I was in the midst of having a nervous breakdown.

I continued to go to work but couldn’t function. My speech became more rapid, I had racing thoughts, barely ate, and was quickly losing weight. My friends began to be extremely worried about me.

Days went on, and I kept seeing Don. My paranoia and anxiety worsened as each day passed. I then started to confront my boss and began to be extremely argumentative towards him.

This went on for a week, and my boss eventually called me into his office and said he has to let me go from my job due to my erratic behavior.

I was furious. How is it that I could get fired for being sexually assaulted, but the perpetrator still has his job?

My mood and mindset kept spiraling out of control. At the time, I didn’t realize I was in a complete manic episode.

My family was not at all supportive during this , but I could tell my behavior worried them.

One night, I locked myself in my bedroom and started breaking things and tearing my room apart. My dad pounded on my door to come out of my room. I refused and kept on destroying my room, I just couldn’t control my aggression in that moment.

My grandparents were called to come over, and my grandfather came to my bedroom door, so I ended up coming out of my room. I remember walking up to my dad and screaming at him, and then he slapped me in the face, leaving a huge red mark on my cheek. After that happened, I stormed back into my room.

Soon after, my family called 911. I remember being dragged out by cops I had no shoes on, and I was placed in an ambulance. I was beyond manic at this point. The ambulance brought me to a local psychiatric hospital.

This is where my mental health journey began.

To be continued…..

Once I got onto the ambulance, I couldn’t stop rapidly talking. I most likely wasn’t making much sense seeing the EMT workers look at me with concern. The ambulance brought me to a nearby emergency room. I had no idea what was happening.

I was brought into a small room that had two large see-through windows where everyone could see me. I was held down on the stretcher by 4 orderly men screaming as I was thrashing being held down. One orderly laughed at me as he held me down by putting his hand on my inner thigh near my private parts. I yelled. I said no don’t touch me. I remember seeing my father outside the room I was in. He looked angry, not concerned, and I realized this was the moment I lost the relationship I once had with him.

I was given an injection, which was a sedative, so I was able to finally calm down. I remember sleeping in the ER with nothing but a sheet and an awful pillow, and the room was freezing. It was a miserable lonely night. My thoughts were that I was going to be sent home in the morning, but I was woken up to a nurse with a wheel chair with her. She said I was being moved to the psychiatric unit.

I asked her why I can’t just walk to the unit, she said going in a wheel chair is protocol when being admitted to the psych unit.

I entered the psych ward scared of what I was getting into. Everyone was much older than me. I was brought to the nurses’ station and given a bracelet with my name, admission date, and a long number on it. I felt like I went from human being to a product of this hospital.

After that I was brought to my room. I was shown the patient bill of rights, which led me to believe I had rights, which made me feel more comfortable with having to be there.

Then, I was shown around the unit. There was a tv room with some board games, playing cards, magazines, and books, and I saw what seemed like very overmedicated patients who were just sitting quietly, almost asleep.

After that, I was brought to see where both group rooms were, then I was brought to the common area, which was the socialization section, which had some tables and chairs and a radio. It was full of adults.

I was shown the group schedule , and after being on the unit a few days, I realized it wasn’t exactly something the staff followed. Out of the 5 or 6 groups that were supposed to be offered throughout the day and night, only 1 or 2 were actually ever run. So the rest of the time, we were expected to socialize or find ways to occupy our time.

The showers were public showers that had no curtain, so I asked, “Do we all shower at the same time?” I was told most times there are more than one women in the shower room at the same time, but not to worry, people won’t be paying attention to me as I shower. I then said I’m not comfortable showering with other people in there at the same time as me with no curtains for privacy. The worker said “well this isn’t a hotel, so you’ll have to adjust and get used to things.”

After my brief tour, I went to my room to lay down . Shortly after laying down to attempt to take a nap, I was asked to go to the medication window to take my meds.

When it was my turn to take my medication, I asked the nurse, dispensing my meds, how I could already be put on medication without knowing why or even before I spoke to a Dr. She said, “Just take your meds. You don’t want to be labeled as a problem patient.” Another female patient who was behind me on the medication line said “ Sweetheart, please just take the meds because if you refuse you’ll be held down and given an injection”. So I took my meds, and I wasn’t happy or comfortable doing so, but I didn’t want an injection for not being compliant.

Within I’d say a half hour of taking my medication, I felt extremely dizzy and just not myself. After being told that if I refuse meds I’ll be forced to take an injection. I began to quickly realize the psychiatric field was not at all something I agreed with.

I then went back to my room to do artwork, seeing my family had sent in art supplies and some books and a magazine, so I’d have stuff to occupy my time with.

As days passed, I started to make friends with some of the other patients. One patient I became close with was the woman I met while on the medication line who advised me to take my meds. She told me the best thing I can do while on the unit is follow the rules and not cause any problems because that can lead to injections or time in the quiet room. I asked her what a quiet room was. She then pointed to a small padded room that was completely empty. She said, “Trust me, you don’t want to end up in there.”

I also became friendly with an older male patient. He was nice and he was also an artist so we shared our artwork with each other.

One day him and I were at the table in the common area, drawing and talking. All of a sudden, two male orderlies grabbed him out of his chair and gave him two injections. He screamed and tried to fight them off of him. He was then dragged off to the quiet room and put in a straightjacket. Witnessing this really freaked me out.

I then ran to the pay phone to call my mom, who had a history of being in rehab and psych wards. I explained what happened to this guy I’m on the unit with. I told her it didn’t seem fair or right that they did this to him for what seemed like no apparent reason.

She told me there is a number on the wall by the pay phone that is an advocacy number I can call to report issues happening on the unit. She said that when I call that number, the agency records the complaint and gets involved.

I hung up with my mom and instantly called the advocacy number. I was on the phone with them for only a few minutes when all of a sudden the charge nurse came over and hung up the phone. She said “ Little girl you’re going to regret making that call!”

I was then escorted to my room and told the team would be in to speak with me.

Soon in walked my psychiatrist, social worker, and two orderlies. I was told I was going to be secluded to only my room for the next 3 days. I wasn’t allowed to go to groups, have visitors, socialize with other patients, or use the phone, seeing I abused that privilege already. I explained that I called an advocacy number that’s posted by the pay phone. How is that abusing my phone privileges. I was then thrown on my bed and held down by the two orderlies, and given an injection, I was told was just a sedative to help me relax since I was coming off very agitated. Then the psychiatrist ordered the orderlies to take away all my art supplies and books and said they would return them once my 3 days were up.

For those 3 days, I paced around my room with nothing to do, I napped, even had all my meals brought to my room so I couldn’t socialize with the other patients. It was the longest 3 days of my life that I felt would never come to an end.

One day, the female patient I became close with told me that all the patients were told if I got any phone calls to tell the person I’m sick, so I can’t come to the phone. So for 3 days, I had no visitors due to them assuming I was sick.

I was only able to leave my room to shower and take my meds. I hoped I could sneak in longer showers to get more of a break from my room, but the worker who was watching me would rush me out after only 5 minutes saying it’s time for me to go back to my room.

Soon, my 3 day punishment came to an end. The team came to my room returning all my art supplies and books and said I’m free to go back to groups and join the other patients, and I could use the phone again and have visits, but advised me not to abuse my phone privileges again. All I thought was I had no idea advocating for another patient was deemed a punishable situation. I told them I’d respect the rules because I couldn’t handle another 3 days of being grounded in a psych ward.

I immediately went to the pay phone to call my best friend Ana. I asked her if she could visit that day.

Later on, I was told I had visitors, but the worker said it with an attitude. She also said visiting hours are not a party for me, and I shouldn’t have so many people coming in to see me. I had no clue why she said this until I got to the visiting room and saw it was full of 10 of my close friends.

Seeing the visiting room is watched over by a worker, I knew I couldn’t tell my friends about my recent punishment I endured. So I had written down a letter explaining everything I went through and gave it to my friend Ana and told her not to read it until she went home.

Soon visiting hours were up and I had to say goodbye to my friends. I was just extremely sad I couldn’t leave with them.

The rest of my psych stay became pretty repetitive. Wake up take vitals, get weighed in, go to breakfast, take morning meds, sit around and socialize, go to morning meeting where we checked in everyday and gave a goal for our day, sit around bored, go to lunch, take afternoon meds, go to another group if it was offered, socialize or find ways to occupy our time, go to dinner, then night meds, then bedtime.

Being on a hospital schedule was definitely an adjustment. I wasn’t used to having to abide by so many rules. Looking back on the day I was given the patients Bill of Rights to read I began to realize all our rights are taken away once we are given our bracelet to becoming admitted to the unit as a patient.

Even though my hospital stay was only 10 days, it was a very traumatic experience that stays with me to this day. Due to experiencing this, I became a stronger person, and looking back now, I realized this psych stay started my life of becoming an outspoken mental wellness advocate. I wish I could say that was my one and only hospitalization I had to experience, but sadly, that wasn’t the case for me.

To be continued…..

After my 10 day psych ward stay, I was discharged back to my parents’ house. We had a meeting at the hospital with my father, stepmother, and the team I was under the care of while in the hospital. The psychiatrist explained to my family that my mood would be slightly heightened and manic for a few days, but I would level back out.

My parents set up strict guidelines I had to follow once I got home. I wasn’t able to go out with friends for a few weeks, couldn’t drive my car for the next month, had to take all my meds as prescribed, and I’d be attending an outpatient program for a few months.

My first few days home, I wasn’t allowed to stay home alone, so I constantly had to be with someone to watch over me, which was very frustrating to deal with. I went from an independent 18 year old only a month prior to now being treated like I was incapable of taking care of myself.

One big thing that got me through all this was about a week before I ended up committed to the psychiatric ward. I had adopted a kitten named Tony. Honestly, without having him in my life at that time, I dont think I would have handled all the stress that came along with adjusting to having a bipolar diagnosis. As much as I saved him by adopting him, I realized he saved me more.

I was discharged from the hospital on a Friday, and my outpatient program started the following Monday. I was a bit nervous to be 6 of group therapy with a bunch of adults I didn’t know. Also, while in the hospital, when we had open communication therapy type groups, I stayed completely silently.

As a child who grew up with an alcoholic drug addict mentally ill mother, I was never allowed to express how I felt. If I did ever open up in anger over what was going on, my father would always say “ Shut up about it. Everything is fine. You’re acting crazy just like your mother”! So I had no idea how to even express myself to anyone ever. It even took a lot for me to open up to any of my close friends. I always feared what type of response I’d get in return.

So, being so used to shutting down all my emotions and feelings for my entire life, I was worried how group therapy would be. I was panicking, and they would force me to talk, so I had major anxiety over going the following Monday.

I basically kept to myself all weekend and stayed in my room with my cat, only coming out to shower, eat meals, and have my parents watch me take my medications. To think a month ago I was enjoying my summer working and hanging out with my friends, and now I was on house arrest all, because a creepy older man at my job chose to sexually assault me and alter my life completely.

Finally, it was Monday morning. I woke up, took a shower, and ate breakfast, and then my grandparents picked me up to bring me to my outpatient program. I remember the drive up the driveway to the program, and my heart started racing. My mind was flooded with worry and anxiety of not knowing what to expect.

When I entered the program, my grandparents and I were brought into an office to fill out papers to voluntarily sign myself in to be a part of group outpatient services. Seemed like they gave me the never-ending pile of paperwork to read and sign along with a folder full of the daily schedule as well as a journal and pen to keep.

Soon after I signed all the papers, I said goodbye to my grandparents. At this time in my life, I was a bit of a heavy smoker, and my addiction to smoking cigarettes only worsened since my hospital stay. All the trauma I experienced made it difficult to not crave a cigarette.

So I asked the worker if there was a designated smoking area and asked if it was ok for me to step outside to smoke a cigarette before I went to my first group. The worker said that’s fine and commented. I seemed a bit anxious.

I sat outside and smoked 2 cigarettes, and then the worker came out and politely asked me to come in so I could join the first session of the group for the day.

When I walked into the group room, I saw everyone in the group was much much older than me. Not a single person was anywhere near my age. So that was super intimidating to find out.

During the first group each of us did a check in to say our names, our current diagnosis if we were comfortable sharing, and since I was new I was asked if I would like to say a bit about myself to introduce myself to the group. I just remember everyone staring at me, waiting to talk. I felt so overwhelmed. I just blurted out “ I’m Julia I’m 18 years old, and I just graduated high school, and I recently had my first hospitalization”! That’s all I could muster up enough courage to say. The group was very kind towards me and said, “Welcome to the group.”

During that first session, I heard so many people share their personal stories. Some people had bipolar disorder just like me. Others were alcoholics or drug addicts, and one woman discussed that she had an eating disorder. It just seemed like everything they all shared I was able to relate to.

I was asked if I’d like to share, but I declined and said if “ if it’s ok. I just want to listen today”! The group leader said that’s fine it’s not mandatory to ever speak, but it can help with recovery if I were to share my feelings.” She said “that’s a way for me to get feedback from other group members that may very well be extremely helpful.” In that moment I wished I could share with the group, but like I said having the childhood I had and being neglected by every adult in my life to open up about how I felt I was nowhere near comfortable sharing my feelings with a room full of people I just met.

After the first group of therapy, I was pulled out by the art therapist. She said she was told by the team that I enjoy doing art, so she wanted to do a private session with me. We sat and talked for the first 15 minutes, and then she gave me a piece of paper and a container of colored pencils. She asked me to draw whatever came to mind.

I drew a large open window with curtains looking out at nature with trees, a sun, clouds, and a bird. I took my time creating my drawing because I felt so calm and peaceful while I was drawing.

Once I was finished, the art therapist said she would like to see what I drew. She then read into my drawing, and I was amazed at how much she could pick up on my emotions simply by looking at a piece of art that I created. I remember her telling me I am someone who likes to keep to myself and hide when things get difficult and that inside I’m crying out for people to hear me and also that I’m struggling to really feel ok with expressing my emotions. I told her that’s all very true.

After that we sat and talked for a half hour. For some reason I just felt so comfortable opening up to her that I told her about the sexual assault I experienced that lead me to a nervous breakdown and that’s how I ended up in a psych ward and that’s why I’m now attending this program. She was just such a calm and peaceful woman, and I could sense she actually cared about everything I was saying. I even asked her if I could just do art therapy while I’m here and said I’m not ok being in groups. She explained that she could try to do more individual sessions with me, but a big part of the program was being in group therapy.

After art therapy was over, I went back outside because it was break time from groups. I sat at the picnic table and smoked a cigarette. A fellow group member came over and asked if he could sit with me. Seeing he was an older man, I felt a bit nervous because I was now associating all men with the man who sexually assaulted me.

He sat across from me, also smoking a cigarette. He was very kind and said I don’t seem like someone who would need mental health services, but said he guesses who really does look the part anyway.

We talked for the entire break, and just by talking to him, I felt more comfortable being a part of the group and hopefully would be able to open up to the other group members eventually.

After break, I went inside for the next group. This group people shared about our mental health related experiences. I remember an older woman talking. Her story was so relatable. She discussed how she was an alcoholic drug addict since she was 18 years old and she turned to drugs and alcohol due to growing up in a dysfunctional household . She then talked about how she knew her addiction was affecting her relationships with both her children and how she wished she could always be a more responsible parent, but she can’t seem to break her addictions.

After she talked, I thanked her for sharing. I then decided to open up. I talked about some parts of my childhood and how my mother was once an amazing mother, but then what seemed like over night she was an alcoholic drug addict who tore my entire family life apart. I told the women hearing her talk as a mother about her relationship with her own kids and how she wished she could do better for them both, made me feel like I was in group with my own mother and wondered if my mother opened up about me or my siblings when she was in rehabs or psych wards.

I was extremely proud of myself for being able to open up and speak about myself for a bit, it was very freeing to be apart of a group with people who didn’t judge me as well as knowing all of these people understood what I’ve gone through.

After the third group let out we had a lunch break, then we had two more groups for the day. I quickly began to realize therapy is very emotionally exhausting, I just could wait until I could go home and nap.

The next two groups went well. One was more of an open discussion to discuss traumas we’ve experienced. I felt this was the group I needed to share in. I didn’t feel as nervous as I did when I attended the first group of the day. I spoke about my recent sexual assault experience going into detail of exactly what happened and how I turned to drugs to cope and how that caused me to have a manic episode . I said I regret not perusing filing a police report. A woman in the group said it only happened to me a month ago, so I have every right to go to the police station and file a report. She said now that I’m stable and clearer headed, this is a better time to handle such a big thing.

So that’s when I decided I’m not going to simply allow Don to get away with what he did, I’m going to talk to the town police again and all I hoped was that it would go better then the first time I tried to report it.

The last group was more of an educational group. Overall, I really enjoyed the program and was grateful the staff was much more kind and compassionate than the staff I encountered while in the psych ward. I began to realize I’d get a lot out of being a part of this program.

After the last group went out, I went back outside to smoke a cigarette. This time, I was surrounded by most of the group members, and we were all talking. They were all very kind, and I was grateful I didn’t have to stress out over being a part of this program.

Soon, it was time to leave, and my grandparents came to pick me up. They asked how my day 6. I told them it went really well, and I’m happy to be a part of this outpatient program.

I ended up falling asleep on the short ride home because, like I commented, group therapy is emotionally exhausting.

The second I got home, I went right to my room to lay in bed with my cat and take a nap.

At this point in my life, I couldn’t change what had happened or taken away my current situation. So now was my time to learn who I was or who this new version of myself would become. I still wasn’t at all comfortable excepting I had a mental illness, but I reminded myself I can’t change it, so I have to learn to live with it.

To be continued….

I decided to take the advice of one of the fellow group members who also attended my outpatient program. I called my good friend Becky, who also worked at the pool where the incident happened, and asked her if she’d come down to the police station with me so I could report it to the police.

I told my father what I was planning on doing, and he did not at all agree with or support my decision. He told me to simply let it go that it’s in the past now I don’t need to make it into a big deal. I told him I still don’t understand at all why he’s not fazed. I was sexually assaulted. I realized I was wasting my breath on having such a conversation with him. I told him I don’t care how he feels I should handle it I’m going to do what I know is the right thing to do.

My friend Becky said she’d come with me to the police station. I decided to dress nice to go in hopes I’d be taken a bit more seriously.

When I entered the police station, I went to the window and said “I’d like to follow up and report a sexual assault that happened to me a month ago at the town pool.” The guy said with an attitude that the detectives are quite busy today, but if it’s that important I’ll have to wait.

So Becky and I sat waiting for what seemed like an eternity. Then, a detective came out and asked Becky if she was at work during anything that happened the day of the incident or prior to. She answered yes, so we were told we would both be questioned separately.

I was taken to a small room full of 5 or 6 detectives, not a single woman, so that was a bit intimidating. They asked me to sit and said they had questions to ask me prior to me giving my statement on the incident.

Looking back I’m not shocked by the questions asked, because from reading so many posts on the #metoo movement that was popular years ago I see that sexual assaults and rape cases are most often times are ignored or even blamed on the women.

The first question I was asked was what was my age at the time of the incident? I said 18 years old.

Question two was what were you wearing at the time of the incident? I said, “Why is that important?” I was told in a snarky voice to just answer what I’m asked. So I said I was wearing shorts and a pool shirt that was my pool staff shirt I was required to wear.

Then I was asked how short my shorts were? I said they were normal cut shorts. I don’t wear extremely short revealing clothes.

The next question was how my relationship with the perpetrator started? I said he worked at the snack bar, and I only really spoke to him when I was on break ordering food.

Then I was asked if I was ever flirtatious with this man to lead him to believe I was interested in his sexual advances? I then said these questions seem like I’m to blame for a grown man sexually assaulting me. The one detective interrupted me when I tried to keep commenting and said young lady do not tell us how to conduct our jobs, if you don’t like it feel free to leave and not file a report.

I then waited for the next most likely inappropriate question to make me seem at fault.

The detective then asked me if the snack bar guy said anything flirtatious to me? I said, “Yes, he would say weird comments that were making me a bit uncomfortable.”

Then I was asked if that’s the case. Why did I choose not to report him then? I explained that sometimes men can be creepy, but I never imagined he’d act on it.

The detective then said “well it seems as if I led this man to believe I was interested in him.” I was shocked that it was even said to me. As if it’s ok for a man to sexually assault me, and now basically the room full of detectives all decided that this whole thing was completely my fault.

They ended the questions by asking me what exactly came of this situation at the pool after I reported it to my boss. I told them my boss said he’d handle it and to not get the town police involved, and then I was kept on my two other positions away from the front desk to limit my encounters with Don. I became extremely paranoid soon after I had a nervous breakdown, and I ended up hospitalized.

I was then asked if I wanted to give an exact statement about what happened. I replied yes.

I said Don, a 45 year old man was the person who ran the snack bar for the summer. He started by saying very in appropriate sexual comments towards me that looking back, I wish I had reported. Then, one day, while I was sitting at the front desk checking in patrons, he walked up to me, said hey sexy. My legs were crossed. Don slid his hand up my inner thigh and touched my vagina. I freaked out and reported the incident it to my boss immediately after it happened, then called my father. Don was spoken to, but that’s the extent of it. I ended up eventually being fired from my job, and nothing ever happened to Don. This is why I felt it was necessary, and I hoped it would be helpful if I filed a police report.

That’s when the detective said “well I think we now heard enough.” As if what I just said was a typical Monday afternoon occurrence.

I asked what comes of this now that I filed a report? I explained I’d like a restraining order seeing at one point Don commented he saw me walking around the town he owns a deli in and I was with my 3 friends and he thought I looked sexy in my outfit that day. I said I’m worried about my safety, seeing he assaulted me once, and is apparently getting away with doing it. I was told I could pursue getting a lawyer and going to court, but most often times nothing will really come of something like this, seeing it’s my word against his. I was then told I’m now 18 I’m an adult, so this situation isn’t viewed like it would be if I was under age. I said so adult women can be assaulted, blamed, then ignored as if it’s no big deal because we are of age, so it’s become appropriate for a man to do this type of thing. The cop said nothing back to me.

I was then asked to sign my report and remember the paper stating are all my statements truthful if so, please sign. I was then told they would file and make a copy of my report, and I could pick it up to keep it for my records.

I thought I would feel better reporting this to the cops, but the outcome to reporting it and the questions I was asked just made me feel 100 times worse.

I met Becky in the waiting area and asked her how her talk went. She told me it was only a few questions asking if she saw the assault or if Don was inappropriate towards her as well. She said no to both questions. She said that’s all she was asked and they wrote the report and she signed it.

On the drive home from the police station, I was furious and broke down crying. I wasn’t at all expecting talking to detectives to go how it went. I was just so angry I was being made out to be blamed for this whole thing.

So now I was fired from my job over this, and now I’m being made out to be the reason it happened. Don simply got away with it all. This just wasn’t fair.

I went to see my best friend Ana that night to talk to her about all of it. She informed me that numerous underage girls were talking about how Don was sexually inappropriate towards them as well, but after seeing what happened to me, none of them felt comfortable reporting it.

I was just beyond upset about all of this. This situation completely altered my entire life, sent me into a hospital, put me on psychiatric meds that I’m told I now have to take them for the rest of my life, left me with trauma, and now I simply need to just suck up how I feel and move on like it never happened.

I felt awful this happened to other girls who also worked at the pool. I started to think if Don felt ok doing this to workers at the pool, I assume this is just who he is, and he must have assaulted or been appropriate to other women.

I realized I needed to let it go. I knew I would never forget what happened, but I quickly realized nothing I did would get Don in trouble. I mean, if the police blamed me for it happening and basically closed the case on it, there wasn’t anything more I could do.

I’ve realized over my 40 years of life on this planet that life isn’t always going to be fair. Many times, bad people get away with bad things. This time of my life was simply that. A 45 year old man got away with sexually assaulting me and other girls, and he would never face a single consequence for his actions.

From facing the life I have in the past, it all fuels me to want to tell my stories and to advocate for the voiceless. We live in a society with a system that needs to change for the better.

To this day, women are raped or assaulted and end up ignored or blamed for it due to their attire or if they were drunk, and it’s simply not ok. Obviously, men could also be assaulted and raped, but seeing I’m a woman writing only on my experience, I can only tell my story of what I lived through.

I pray for a day the system handles things much better, but for now all I can do is tell my story and I hope it can help someone who could relate to it and benefit from reading it.

To be continued…..

About two months after my psych ward stay, I decided I wanted to go to a friends party. I was finally discharged from the outpatient program I was attending, so my parents agreed I could go to a party in my town.

In high school, I was part of the popular group. I made friends with basically anyone I met, I was invited to all the parties with my friends, and I had underclass friends as well. Typically, my life consisted of hanging out with friends and socializing.

I went to the party with my younger sister. I told her I was nervous, seeing I didn’t know how people would treat me since I ended up in a psych ward. She told me I’m friends with everyone who will be there and it will be fine.

I was overwhelmed with anxiety once I parked my car and began walking up to the house. I told my sister maybe it’s best I just go home, but she talked me into staying. She said that after all the stress I’ve gone through, I deserve a fun night out.

Everyone was hanging out in the garage. I walked in, and it was as if I was a complete stranger to a room full of people who used to be friends to me.

Most of the night, everyone basically ignored me, even being there. I only stayed for an hour, and I wish I didn’t even go. I left without my sister seeing she chose to stay, and I went right home.

I went right to my room, and I felt so ashamed of myself. All I thought was now that everyone was aware of my psych stay and nervous breakdown. I felt like I would never be treated the same.

Looking back on how my friends perceived me or how I was treated like I was flawed due to having a mental health diagnosis, this was one major reason I began to hide my bipolar diagnosis from anyone and everyone I came across. I just felt if I don’t open up to people about it I’ll be treated like I’m a normal person without being judged for a piece of myself I never asked to have and that I can’t magically erase from my life.

Seeing my close friends I graduated high school with went off to college, I started to seclude myself from even going out. I just felt like I didn’t belong wherever I went. I became so self-conscious and worried how the rest of the world was perceiving me.

I never imagined that age 18. I would have experienced so much and had such a negative life transformation in the matter of only a few months. I had plans after graduation to go to county college, work, hang out with friends, and all of that became non-existent due to something a 45 year old man chose to do to my life.

Every day, I felt anger that Don was most likely living his life completely unaffected by his actions towards me, yet here I am suffering from a sexual assault I wish more than anything never happened.

Prior to my nervous breakdown and hospitalization, I was a completely different person. Now, at age 18, I was ashamed to even be myself. I was completely embarrassed over my manic episode. I was still living with the after effects of being in the psych ward, ptsd from Don, and seeing my friends were all off at college I felt even worse knowing I wasn’t keeping up with what they were all doing.

I guess I just never imagined my life would ever be what it turned into. A big reason I was so angry with my bipolar diagnosis and why I couldn’t simply adjust to it, is that my mom was unstable during most of my childhood and I grew to hate her due to alcoholism and instability. So now I felt angry that I had that part of her in myself.

All I thought was how will I live the rest of my life with having bipolar, taking psych meds, I lived in fear I’d end up committed to a psych ward again, I also worried I’d hit another manic episode.

Being brand new into adulthood fresh out of high school, I never heard of the term stigma in relation to mental health and prior to my diagnosis I didn’t know much about mental health conditions even though I watched my mom suffer from alcoholism and drug addiction. I’m not sure my family even opened up about her having bipolar disorder. It took my personal experience to understand it all, but from seeing how I was treated by people who once considered me a friend to being completely shunned by them I now realize exactly how bad the mental health stigma actually is.

Being 18 years old and having bipolar disorder was not something I was at all happy with. I just prayed one day I’d find myself again because whoever I became was definitely not someone I was at all happy to be.

To be continued…

Since being out of my outpatient program, I started seeing an outpatient psychiatrist. She was a very interesting woman, very quirky. Her style and presence were just not something I was not used to. She was kind, though, and I felt we had a good connection. Plus, in her waiting area, she had a huge Peter Max poster, which I loved!

The first day we met, she dedicated an hour to our session so she could go over my hospital records and simply get to know me and my background.

We talked about my childhood and how my mother was an alcoholic drug addict who also had a bipolar diagnosis, my now ptsd from the psych ward I was in, as well as from the sexual assault.

She asked me if I ever experienced mania or depression episodes before my first nervous breakdown. I said with the childhood I had I experienced depression and wished I could die so I would not have to live the life I was living every day. She asked if I ever attempted suicide I said no, I never thought to end my own life ever. I just prayed God would handle that.

Her theory on my mental health was she honestly didn’t believe I even had bipolar and she thought that the ecstasy I took prior to my nervous breakdown lead my brain to be manic and the hospital should have simply weaned the ecstasy from my body to allow my body to naturally calm down and stabilize.

She said she’d like to work with me, but eventually she’d like to discontinue my psych meds to see how I do. I told her I thought I needed to be on these for the rest of my life. She said she didn’t believe I needed them, seeing she doesn’t think I had bipolar disorder.

I felt a sense of relief that maybe I could be freed from the need to be hooked on psych meds, so I was very excited to know my psychiatrist was going to get me off them.

When our session was up, we set up a follow-up appointment for the next month.

When I got home, I didn’t feel the need to open up about how my session went with my parents. They asked me how it went, though, so I just said it was fine. I assumed if I went into detail, they would have made a huge argument over it all, so I thought saying nothing was best.

Seeing I also needed to see a therapist as part of my discharge plan, I needed to start sessions with a therapist. She was local, which was good, so I didn’t have to drive far.

I remember my first visit. She held sessions in her house where she had an office for clients to have sessions.

She was an older woman, maybe mid 50’s. She was very kind and seemed compassionate. For whatever reason, even though I opened up occasionally in my outpatient program, I still didn’t feel comfortable talking about my feelings with this woman, so basically, every session, I stayed silent.

On our first session, though, seeing she asked me a plethora of questions, I was able to answer most of them. She asked for a brief history of my childhood, how my relationships are with my family now, do I have supportive friends in my life, am I having any suicidal thoughts or do I self harm or have thoughts to self harm, and other more personal questions.

Our sessions lasted an hour, which seemed to drag on. She had a clock both of us could see, and I just stared at it during our sessions, just waiting for the hour to be up.

As much as I’ve now grown to love therapy and find it to be an extremely important piece of my recovery journey, I simply did not feel that way at age 18. I felt it was such a chore to open up to a random woman, and I just didn’t feel it was at all beneficial for me to continue to do. My parents insisted I go so I had no choice but to.

So every Monday, I had to meet with my therapist at 3 pm. Every Wednesday, I met with my psychiatrist. All of this seemed like a huge inconvenience to my life and I wished more then anything I never met Don, because without him ever being in my life I never would have had a nervous breakdown leading to being diagnosed bipolar. I was just keeping in mind that my current psychiatrist planned to eventually get me off my meds, so just maybe therapy would end once the medications stopped.

Everything about having a mental health diagnosis seemed to be such a huge inconvenience to my life. All I thought was that none of my friends had to live the life I was now forced to live. Nope, instead, they all got to go off to college and live their lives as normal adults, and here I am being the odd one out. I was just so angry at this whole situation. I just prayed that my psychiatrist was right and hoped I could eventually live without medications and start my life over as a normal person carrying on a normal life.

I did remind myself, though, since my parents weren’t informed of my psychiatrists’ plan to get me off meds, I didn’t tell my therapist either because she kept my parents updated on my treatment with her.

I just carried on my life as someone with bipolar until just maybe my psychiatrist could save me from having this diagnosis.

I never imagined my life would ever have become what I was now living, but who can predict one day they’d be sexually assaulted, forcing them into a psych ward and having a completely altered life. No one predicts the awful things that happen. I just prayed I could eventually go back to normal, but only time would tell if that would ever happen.

As of now, this was who I now was living the life I had to live, and there was simply nothing I could do to change it. Life isn’t fair all the time, and accepting that was just what I needed to do.

To be continued…..

It’s been 3 months since I started working with my outpatient psychiatrist, and now she decided she was going to discontinue me from having to take my psychiatric medications.

Like I said she told me on my first visit with her that she honestly doesn’t believe I have a bipolar diagnosis and she thinks my mania was caused by the ecstasy I took prior to my psychotic breakdown.

She also discussed with me that the trauma I experienced from the sexual assault combined with the ecstasy sent my brain into complete shock and triggered mania.

So we talked for an hour about making the move to stop my meds. Looking back I’m not sure why she chose to simply abruptly stop them when it’s much safer to lower psych meds to wean a person off them. Back then, I wasn’t really too knowledgeable on psych meds and the proper way to stop them. I trusted her since she was my psychiatrist.

I told her I wasn’t planning on discussing this with my father and step mother, because I knew it would turn into an argument and she said I’m an adult now and there is no reason I have to tell them things I’m not comfortable discussing with them. She did recommend I tell someone what’s going on with me being off meds, seeing they can keep a better eye on my stability. She recommended I tell one of my siblings, but I explained I don’t really receive much support from them, so I will tell my best friend Ana.

When the session was over, she said she still plans to work with me to make sure I am stable, so she set our next appointment for three months from this appointment.

When I left and got in my car, I was thrilled that I would be free from being on psychiatric medications. To be honest, they were destroying my health, and I wasn’t on them very long. So, to now, being able to not take them anymore was just beyond amazing.

A week after I saw my psychiatrist, I went to my eye, Dr. On the form, it asked for recent medications. So I listed the meds I used to take and wrote I was recently taken off them.

When the eye Dr. sat with me to start my exam he read the meds I used to be on and was concerned. He said you were clearly being medicated for bipolar so how is it your meds were discontinued. He said you have to take psych meds if you are diagnosed  bipolar. He said I needed immediately inform my psychiatrist immediately that I chose to stop taking my meds.

I explained to him it was my psychiatrists decision to take me off my meds, she stopped them a week ago. I told him I actually feel a lot better and am not as sedated since stopping them, and my sleep is back to normal.

He told me that’s great. I feel ok now, but he worried I’d hit another manic episode. I honestly wasn’t really fazed at all by his concerns for my mental state. I was just thrilled not to be on psych meds anymore.

At this point my parents weren’t watching me like a hawk taking my meds, I was also responsible for filling and picking up my meds myself so I knew because of that they wouldn’t even know I wasn’t taking them.

I decided to reach out to my best friend to tell her I’m now currently off meds. She was a bit worried and concerned about my psychiatrist decision, but said at least I’ll still be keeping appointments with her so she can observe my moods.

I now knew I was going to live a secret life to my friends and family and live without psychiatric meds. I did worry since speaking with my eye, Dr. that maybe I did need medications, but I was more excited about the thought of possibly never needing to ever take another psychiatric medication and hopefully free myself from having a life of living with a bipolar diagnosis. Only time would tell.

I’ve been ecstatic not being on psych meds. I have been feeling great, my sleep is back to normal, I’m more social, and I’ve lost all the shame I felt having a bipolar diagnosis. I finally felt like I was myself again no longer consumed by a daily life of taking psych meds.

Looking back on this time of my life, I didn’t know what I now know about everything beyond a chemical imbalance impacting mental health. So my diet and lifestyle never became a focus.

I started hanging out with my best friend who went to Rutgers. She was not aware I wasn’t medicated anymore. I just felt great, so I didn’t feel the need to tell anyone.

She was concerned when we went out, and I drank, and she commented I shouldn’t drink while I’m on medications, and she worried how my mind and body would react when I did drink.

So, seeing she was so panicky over my mental health, I told her my psychiatrist recently took me off all my meds, and I’ve been off them for almost a month. She wasn’t too concerned because she thought if it was my drs decision then it must be ok.

It’s hard writing about this part of my life. Seeing my memory is a little hazy on everything. I will say I survived being off my medications, for I’d say 5 months. Looking back, like I said, I wasn’t focusing on my diet and lifestyle to even attempt to keep my mind and body healthy and stable. I’m now 40 at age 19. I wish I had taken better care of myself , because who knows, maybe I could have permanently lived without my medications.

One thing I want to say about hitting mania is I’m not aware of my behaviors as outsiders are. I don’t notice the rapid speech, the lack of sleep, high energy, delusional thoughts, or anything that comes along with experiencing mania.

Younger me during mania, I would become extremely argumentative and aggressive. I’m realizing that was the case due to what I’m now aware of as ptsd symptoms I suffered from living my traumatic childhood.

One thing I do notice before it turns into extreme mania is my focus is clear, I can read and obtain any information, my intellectual behavior is different, it’s hard to explain the pre-faze of mania leading up to the more life threatening and aspect of mania that leads to a psychotic break committing me to a psych ward. Prior to hitting psychosis it’s basically just like the absolutely best feeling of a happiness high.

My first manic episode was at age 18 in this part of my life I’m discussing I was now 19 years old. I clearly remember the hospital stay that was the consequence of my manic episode, but I do not remember what actually led to my family calling and ambulance and getting me committed. My assumption is that there must have been some type of extremely inappropriate behavior or argument between me and my family in order for them to need to call an ambulance on me.

I just remember is the extreme feeling of disappointed I felt that I couldn’t successfully live without needing psychiatric medications. It was difficult to accept the art reality that I’d most likely never be able to live without psych meds and it was just such a frustrating feeling and all I did was compare myself to my bipolar alcoholic mother and thought I’ve now turned into everything I hated about her.

To be continued….

Taking a leap back to my childhood so certain parts of my story will make more sense, giving the background of my entire life.

Obviously, I don’t actually remember the day I was born, but based on stories told, it was for sure a panic for my parents.

I do remember seeing my birth photo, and I was covered in bruises. During my mother’s labor with me, code red was called. My umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck, and I was turned the wrong way. Stories told me that I almost died at birth.

To be honest due to traumas I faced in life not only from childhood, but also from ending up with a mental health diagnosis, for years I thought my life was actually a mistake and God never planned for me to survive my birth. So every bad thing I have ever experienced was due to me being a mistake. Imagine living with that thought for so many years of your life?

I will say I have the memory of an elephant, which now comes in handy to be able to publish my life through this blog. I remember things from a year old that my mom was shocked I would talk about years later. I clearly remember running outside at a few years old and falling and scraping my knees, also remember my brother hiding in a coffee table cabinet in a house I was told I was too young to have any memories of. Knowing my memory is so good, I think that was for sure my gift from God to eventually tell my story.

I’d say for about 9 years I had the perfect family. My mom was super mom. She was a nurse, involved in the PTA at school, cooked and baked for us, decorated the house for all our birthdays and holidays, decorated and baked our birthday cakes, made all our Halloween costumes homemade, got us ready for dance rehearsals doing our makeup and hair. My father was also very involved, and I recall him always telling me I was his favorite. That for sure changed the older I got and my perfect white picket fence family I once had vanished in what seemed like an overnight occurrence.

Before I get into all the bad aspects of my childhood, I want to just reflect on how amazing my parents once were. Looking back on the first 9 years of my childhood, I always wonder why God chose to one day take that all away from me. I will say I am able to be more grateful for the good times I did have during my childhood, but now with age and all my lived experiences I also find gratitude in my growth and strength from all the traumas and bad parts of not only my childhood, but life as a whole. That for sure wasn’t an easy process to find blessings in my traumas, but but being in my 40’s now I can see my life as a whole with a different perspective then when I was living through all those difficulties.

When I say things went from good to bad in an instant that’s what I can remember. I went from having my mother be my mother to one day walking into her bedroom to see 3 gallon glass jugs of wine completely empty and I smelled liquor on her breath and her sleep didn’t look normal to me. I recall in that moment saying to myself I just lost my mother I once had.

My intuitions just told me she had a problem, and I felt an intense emotion that it was going to completely alter my family. That’s deep stuff to now have to face off with at the age of 9 years old.

When my dad came home from work that night, I told him mom was drunk and passed out, and I think she has a problem. That’s when the first of many cover-ups for my mothers soon to be problem with her alcoholism began. My father said it’s not a problem she sometimes drinks and just goes to watch tv or something. Everything is fine.

Obviously looking back I couldn’t have expected my father to say she has a serious problem and soon her behaviors will destroy our happy family, but I often wonder what might have been if my mothers alcoholism was dealt with in that very moment of me discussing my concerns.

Did I ever imagine the hell my life would soon become? Of course not, but I did get an intense feeling that things were never going to be the same again.

To be continued….