July 23, 2001 fell on a Monday, and I dragged myself out of bed and went to
work. I should have called in sick that day, but I had been toughing it out
for weeks prior, each day going through the motions of real life knowing
that if I stopped, the beast would win.  And I’m too stubborn to let it win.

For the most part, I worked for the same reason that everyone works - to earn a living—but the feeling of “normalcy” that I got from being able to do what other people do in life did more for me than a paycheck ever could.  I was never one to call in sick unless it was unavoidable, and I had learned over the years to do whatever was necessary to make my life as normal as
possible - even if that meant working when I was ill.  This is not to say that
there were not numerous times when I was mentally and physically unable to climb out of the black hole of depression long enough to take care of
business, but I never went down without a fight.  And make no mistake about it - I was fighting with all my will on July 23, 2001.

I had always rapid-cycled through manic phases but not through depressive
states. This is probably the reason I remained incorrectly diagnosed for so
many years. It was easy for me and for doctors and therapists to recognize
my prolonged, agonizing depressions, but mania usually came in the form of
mixed states or was so short-lived that it was just written off as various
levels of depression.

In the summer of 2001, however, things changed. I began to ultra-rapid
cycle. It was a frightening time for me. Depression is painful and often
debilitating, but I had suffered through episodes for so many years that
depression held few surprises. The pain was agonizing, but it was familiar.
I knew what to expect. During the worst times, I could not work, sometimes
for a day or two, other times for weeks or months. I lost jobs due to my
illness. I left jobs due to my illness. But for the most part, I fought
hard. I gave the beast a run for its money.

I have a friend who had breast cancer at age 33. She missed work for one
week when she was hospitalized and recovering from surgery. For six months, she went through chemo and lost all her hair as a side effect of the drugs. The drugs also left her tired and not feeling well. But she went to work every day, missing only an hour here and there when she went in to the clinic for chemotherapy treatments, and an occasional day when the chemo effects kept her grounded.

I thought my friend was playing the martyr, unwilling to admit that she was
ill and needed to stay home and rest and take care of herself. She looked
like she had been hit by a Mack truck, yet she was at her desk every
morning. She left for chemo and returned to work after. I finally asked
her what she was trying to prove, and pointed out that many people took sick leave for far less serious afflictions than hers. She replied that she was
not one to call in sick unless it was unavoidable.

Hmmm …sound familiar?

I hit bottom on July 23, 2001, that day when I should have called in sick
but didn’t.  An incident that most people would be upset about when it
happened but forget about in a day or two had me bedridden for weeks, too
depressed even to cry. I wanted to die. Suicide was not an option since I
didn’t have the energy to do it, but I really did not want to live anymore.
I felt that most of my life I had not been alive at all, but merely existing. Summer of 2001 was a very bad time for me, and I am still trying
to recover from it.

I have tried to work since that fateful day. I have good days and bad days.
I am down some days and still think of suicide sometimes, but I have now
been determined totally disabled by Social Security Administration.

I think about my friend with cancer and her heroics in trying to be “normal”
by going through the motions of life day after day. I always thought she
should have cut herself some slack, yet I was never willing to do that for
myself.  And now I am doing so.  I am resting and recovering from my
illness.  I have a good doctor and therapist and for the first time in my
life I have hope.

With the chaos that my illness causes in my life, I am not in a position to
add the stress of working every day. This does not mean I cannot work at
all, and I will find a part-time job soon. I will work the hours and the
days that I can, but I will not force myself into a situation that
interferes with recovery.

So, has the beast won? I think not. I believe that now I have a fighting
chance to defeat this “thing.”  I may never be cured.  I may never be in
total remission. But hopefully I will not become suicidal again.  And I now
feel that I have a possible future. Though I am unemployed, I am working
every day.  I work at taking care of myself.  And that, to me, is a
perfectly normal thing to do.

Take care, everyone.  Do whatever needs to be done to stay stable.  I smile
now, and I can relax, and occasionally I laugh out loud.  Isn’t it great!!!