Everyone Has an Opinion

I think I had a pretty normal (but quiet) life until I was a freshman in high school. That’s when the sexual assault happened, and the trauma extended beyond just the act. There was no solidarity with my fellow women back then. There was no “I am Jane Doe.” I became the source of relentless teasing and name-calling. I was told that if it had been them, they would have enjoyed it. I was called a ho, a slut, and a liar.

So I just stopped talking. For months – I STOPPED TALKING- and when I finally told my parents, they took me to a doctor whose answer was to put me on an antidepressant and took me to a child psychologist. Which then led to a manic episode my senior year, and that’s really when my life changed.

I wrote a whole novella about all this, so I really don’t want to revisit the past, but I wrote all this to write this. EVERYONE HAS AN OPINION ON MY LIFE. Some people believe I have bipolar disorder. Some people think it’s demons, and yet other people deny it completely. Still, I take Oxcarbazepine, Aripiprazole, and Buspirone every day.

What people don’t see, because they haven’t been in my life since I was 17, is that all of these pills have side effects. When I was on Lithium, it ruined my skin. When I was on Depakote, it made my hair fall out. When I was on Risperdal, it sent pain up and down my spine, and I could barely move. Then there were all the psychotropic pills that I actually had severe allergic reactions to. It’s not been a fun journey.

So this new adventure of having female issues is completely triggering. The fact that the ER and my primary doctor have no idea what is wrong with me is terrifying. They simply send me home with pain meds and an anti-inflammatory. ChatGPT has some questions to ask the specialist that I am going to see on Monday. But truthfully, I am not scared of finding out something disastrous. I am scared of not finding anything out at all. It’s just like being fourteen again and being called a liar.

The sad thing is, I am a rule follower. I do exactly what the doctors tell me to do, but I’ve missed so much work this year. Either due to mental health or physical health, and in my head I imagine they all hate me. I am very good at what I do, but I am inconsistent at best. I can hear the frustration in their emails, and it breaks my heart because all I want to do is work and make memories with the few people who have proven they love me.

Did you know that when I go to the ER, there are a few things that pop up under my name: bipolar, anxiety, and the fact that I have had a dissection in my carotid artery. So what does that mean? Every time I go to the ER, they test me for having a stroke, and they treat me like an idiot, even though I have a master’s degree from a prestigious university. I am far from stupid, and I am far from weak, but I’ve had to be strong for far too long. So I sit here exhausted in tears, in pain, wondering if anyone is going to be able to help me on Monday.

I think people judge me so harshly. I think I judge myself so harshly. I wish I didn’t feel like I needed to earn love. I wish I didn’t feel like I needed to fight for my physical and mental health, but that has always been my cross to bear.