I am thirty-nine woman with a diagnosis of bipolar I disorder. I’m not really sure why I’m still alive. I thought my youthful self-destructive habits would without a doubt leave me dead before thirty. Die young; stay pretty.
I’ve lived a life of extremes. Sex, drugs, rock n roll, the whole shebang. Multiple mental hospitalizations in my late teens and twenties. I was beautiful; thus, I was doomed. After years of struggling and countless tries at medication, I had achieved stability and rejoined society. I had a life that was almost normal.
But these days are marked with an absence of dramatics and histrionics. My days are quiet and each morning they stretch before me and time slows. I struggle with violent mood swings, panic attacks, paralyzing depressions and hallucinations. I wake up fighting and after that split second where I think everything is okay–well, then the world comes crashing down.
I’m married to the man of my dreams. I am blissfully happy having him in my life but I can’t help wanting more for us. When we decided we wanted to start a family, I was thirty-five and so naive to the perils of reproduction. I spent a year tapering down on my psychiatric medications in order to prepare for pregnancy. We never dreamed that after all that, we would be catapulted into a nightmare of pregnancy loss and infertility. I have been trying to conceive our first since November of 2014 and have had two miscarriages, both at nine weeks gestation. I have also terminated a much wanted pregnancy in the second trimester due to our little girl having a fatal chromosomal defect. Her name was Molly, and losing her was the single most painful experience of a life full of painful experiences.
This is my sad attempt to tell our story.