I hate you, don't leave me.

I was diagnosed with bipolar affective disorder and borderline personality disorder when I was a teenager. I must have been about 16 or so when it all happened. I have always understood that it is an illness and it's not something that I caused or was really my fault. I've read about a lot of people who take all the blame for it on themselves but thankfully I never had that layer. Maybe Im selfish. Who knows? It's not something I really like to talk about though. I don't say to people " Hi! I'm Kit. Nice weather we're having and by the way, I'm a manic depressive with a weak sense of identity and a fear of abandonment. Do you like gelato?" I don't feel that it defines me as a person any more than having eczema would. It's something that I have and there are steps that I take to manage it. When I was first diagnosed my family were fantastic. My GP diagnosed me with depression and gave me a referral to see a psychiatrist. I was put on medication to treat the symptoms while I went regularly to counseling sessions to try to understand why I was feeling this way and to learn what trigger events were setting off my episodes of depression and mania and my unfounded fear of rejection.

My Mum bought a book to read to try to help herself and me understand what was happening a bit better. It was called I hate you, don't leave me. I never read it, but the title was always something that stuck with me, even now almost 10 years later. It's hard when your feelings are such a complete mess that even thinking about it makes you exhausted. I hate you, don't leave me is how I felt about most people in my life around that time. I hated them, everything they did and said annoyed me and I was 90% sure they were only put on earth to piss me off. I couldn't be without them though. I would actively seek people out and want to spend time with them and talk to them only to become enraged minutes into the conversation. It wasn't their fault and in most ways it wasn't my fault either. I was so new to these feelings that I didn't know how to express them and understand them. It was hard for me because I couldn't articulate what I was going through and it was hard for my family because they didn't understand. I kept a lot of the really bad stuff from them too. At the time, and even now it's not stuff that I talk about.

I went to counselers and psychologists, psychiatrists and psychopharmacologists and was prescribed antidepressants, antipsychotics, mood stabilisers and was told I might have to spend some time in hospital if I didn't improve. I hated it. The medications made me physically sick and a lot of the time I was unable to get out of bed. I was trying to study for my HSC but couldn't focus on anything. I had a boyfriend and we treated each other appallingly because neither of us understood. I took myself off all the meds, which isn't a safe thing to do, and spiraled out of control.

Eventually I learned something called Cognitive Behaviour Therapy. I don't think they do that anymore, but it was the only thing that has ever helped me. I've had 2 really bad episodes in the last 6 years which is incredible because I used to have 2 really bad episodes a week. I think it has to do with growing up and my brain maturing but also a lot to do with recognising the onset of it and distracting myself from it. I've always written and that helps a lot. I bake now when I'm frustrated and angry. It calms me. I play with my dogs or I read a book. I'm not cured. As far as I know, there isn't a cure. But that's ok. I'm not ashamed of my illness and having it has made me who I am and I'm stronger for it. My brain doesn't work quite the same way as other peoples do but if it did I wouldn't be someone who bakes and blogs and always says exactly what she thinks. I apologise if sometimes it seems like I hate you, please though... Don't leave me.