For months, I sat in loneliness and cried day in and day out. I couldn’t stop shedding tears, no matter how hard I tried, and I couldn’t eat or sleep. I sat there staring and crying, staring and crying. I lost motivation to go to school or work. I didn’t want to do anything with my friends and I perfectly content isolating everyone out my life, even my family. I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday and canceled my plans on the day of, only recreating them to avoid the many questions that would have resulted. I decided that this would probably be my last birthday. How did it get to this?
My grandmother passed away on December 20,2015. I had to some extent experienced hardships in my life; this was a pain like never before. Countless times, people reached out to me and let me know “I’m here if you need me,” but even in this bubble of comforting words and gestures, for the first time in my life, I felt alone. I decided to return to Durham the following week, possibly prematurely, and tried to live a normal life, as if none of my circumstances had changed. I failed miserably. I attributed my emotional rollercoaster to my lack of grieving. From the time Gee (what I called my grandmother) passed away, I hadn’t cried. In many respects, I simply tried to deny the fact that she was gone. I thought this pain would go away; somehow I would magically go to sleep and return from this nightmare with all of my problems and emotions faded into the night. It was deeper than that. There was no magical clock to turn back the hands of time, no magic eraser to erase my pains. I had reached a low that I never imagined reaching before. I no longer cared about anything. I didn’t exactly want to be dead, but I didn’t want to live like this, for sure. I often hoped that I just wouldn’t wake up. I was not OK! I needed help. Everything and everybody made me experience every emotion possible. I had given up on myself. I had given up on life.
Enough was enough; I knew I had to regain control of my life. I reached out to my mom and simply said, “I need to get help.” My dad called me within an hour. My parents knew something was wrong, but were not sure to what extent. In the conversation with my dad he stated “Amara, I don’t want to scare you, but this could be Mental Illness related.” I in return told him “Daddy, I figured that. I’ve done my research, that’s why I’m finally seeking help”. My dad told me to find a psychiatrist in the Triangle (Raleigh, Durham, Chapel Hill) area and that they would support me in any decision I decided to make. I knew this was something I had to do for myself. When I first met with my psychiatrist, I knew I had to be completely honest with her that was the only way I could get better and that’s what I did. I let her see the real me, both sides of me . . .”the silent me”. The “Amara” that I was ashamed to show, or tell people about.
The silent part of me has made me the strong woman I am today, it taught me pain and the feeling of being alone. It also taught how to overcome it. I thank God every day for my parents. Without them I wouldn’t have progressed as much as I have. I understand everyone doesn’t have the support that I have, and there is no way I could have made it without my family, and close friends. I probably wouldn’t’ be here without them. In retrospect, it’s frightening to even imagine me being dead, but that was my reality. I’ve learned that with time, things get better, but I’ve also learned that sometimes things are as bad as they seem. Being diagnosed with bipolar disorder and depression/anxiety, “family and friends” has a whole new meaning to me; I’ve learned who was really there for me. This illness is new to me, but it’s my new normal and I’ve learned to accept that. My journey has only begun, but I’m willing to see where it takes me. What doesn’t kill me can only make me stronger…right?
My grandmother passed away on December 20,2015. I had to some extent experienced hardships in my life; this was a pain like never before. Countless times, people reached out to me and let me know “I’m here if you need me,” but even in this bubble of comforting words and gestures, for the first time in my life, I felt alone. I decided to return to Durham the following week, possibly prematurely, and tried to live a normal life, as if none of my circumstances had changed. I failed miserably. I attributed my emotional rollercoaster to my lack of grieving. From the time Gee (what I called my grandmother) passed away, I hadn’t cried. In many respects, I simply tried to deny the fact that she was gone. I thought this pain would go away; somehow I would magically go to sleep and return from this nightmare with all of my problems and emotions faded into the night. It was deeper than that. There was no magical clock to turn back the hands of time, no magic eraser to erase my pains. I had reached a low that I never imagined reaching before. I no longer cared about anything. I didn’t exactly want to be dead, but I didn’t want to live like this, for sure. I often hoped that I just wouldn’t wake up. I was not OK! I needed help. Everything and everybody made me experience every emotion possible. I had given up on myself. I had given up on life.
Enough was enough; I knew I had to regain control of my life. I reached out to my mom and simply said, “I need to get help.” My dad called me within an hour. My parents knew something was wrong, but were not sure to what extent. In the conversation with my dad he stated “Amara, I don’t want to scare you, but this could be Mental Illness related.” I in return told him “Daddy, I figured that. I’ve done my research, that’s why I’m finally seeking help”. My dad told me to find a psychiatrist in the Triangle (Raleigh, Durham, Chapel Hill) area and that they would support me in any decision I decided to make. I knew this was something I had to do for myself. When I first met with my psychiatrist, I knew I had to be completely honest with her that was the only way I could get better and that’s what I did. I let her see the real me, both sides of me . . .”the silent me”. The “Amara” that I was ashamed to show, or tell people about.
The silent part of me has made me the strong woman I am today, it taught me pain and the feeling of being alone. It also taught how to overcome it. I thank God every day for my parents. Without them I wouldn’t have progressed as much as I have. I understand everyone doesn’t have the support that I have, and there is no way I could have made it without my family, and close friends. I probably wouldn’t’ be here without them. In retrospect, it’s frightening to even imagine me being dead, but that was my reality. I’ve learned that with time, things get better, but I’ve also learned that sometimes things are as bad as they seem. Being diagnosed with bipolar disorder and depression/anxiety, “family and friends” has a whole new meaning to me; I’ve learned who was really there for me. This illness is new to me, but it’s my new normal and I’ve learned to accept that. My journey has only begun, but I’m willing to see where it takes me. What doesn’t kill me can only make me stronger…right?