Medication Helped Me Figure Out Who I Was
Words and images by Dr. Rachel Kallem Whitman
I worship at the Church of Antipsychotics.
I have more faith in meds than a higher power. If I’m looking for salvation, it’s in an orange cylinder with a prescription refilled every month.
I love my lithium. I salute my Seroquel. I adore my Ativan. Klonopin, my confidant. My Vraylar, my savior. The reason I’m alive is because my hope comes in the shape of tablets, capsules, and pills. There are side effects, but they are overshadowed by the fact that not only am I still living, eating, breathing, and typing, but I’m living as the best version of my best self. Without my medication I’m more bipolar than a human being.
I didn’t always revel in taking medication. When I was first formally diagnosed with bipolar disorder at 17 my teenage rebellion came in the form of flushing my medication down the toilet. Sidebar: I really should take this time to apologize to all of the subdued and mellow fish in the Chesapeake Bay who found themselves swimming in my psychiatric medication tainted toilet water. I didn't mean to spike your estuary. I just wanted to be a typical 90s teen, not a crazy one.
I wanted to play Dave Matthews Band every hour of the day, wear white glittery eyeshadow, and complain about homework. Nothing insane about that. I begged for normalcy and taking my medication confirmed what I had expected for a while now, that I was in fact bonkers. And this felt like a death sentence, or at least the sentence of being nuts without parole. My plans for the future went from anything is possible to clocking hours in a psych ward. Or so was my worst nightmare. My diagnosis gave me an identity crisis that threatened to topple my world.
You probably can guess what happens when you live with a serious mental illness and don’t take your medication: you lose your mind. Like, I super lost mine. I not-so-slowly started falling apart because I didn’t have my meds to keep me upright with my head on tight. I grew sicker and sicker, I was hospitalized, my fears coming true, but I still didn’t want to take my medication. Who would I be on the other side of insanity? Bipolar can mimic identity and I thought the best parts of me – the “real” me – was made up of euphoric hypomania and divine mania. Yes, there was psychosis and depression, but my hypomania and mania were so deliciously addictive that dealing with the darker side of my illness felt like a worthy trade. Medication threatened to assassinate what I held the most dearly: untreated me.
I pray to the gods of generic drugs. I quiver in the awe of my affordable co-pays. All hail health insurance!
I started taking my medication regularly when I was 22 after I graduated from college. Bipolar College Rachel had many precarious adventures while being unmedicated but many of these adventures fit within the college narrative so I could blend in pretty easily. I partied a lot, did drugs (not the kind from my psychiatrist, but from a dodgy econ major who sold excellent cocaine at a jacked-up price), I slept around, and I didn’t sleep. College camouflaged my bipolar. But I went to my classes and I got good grades which, to my parents and treatment team, was a good measure of sanity. I was sick, but sick and sparkly and sporting an impressive GPA.
But at 22 I found myself a college graduate working a 9-5 job, and my bipolar shenanigans - as I called them, my psychiatrist called them reckless behavior - would no longer fly. Responsible Grown Up Rachel had to be at work on time, sit in her cube, do whatever task she was assigned with notable vigor, basically, be an adult. Meds were my ticket to growing up. So, I took them.
All of a sudden this capable and responsible person emerged. Honestly, someone I never knew existed. I didn’t hide behind disease anymore, medication actually helped me figure out who I was. I didn’t have to live like an illness. I could hold a job, have stable relationships, and experience life without a shade of sickness. I finally had some control in a world where my madness had left me spinning. It was empowering to make healthy decisions and not let my disorder call the shots. I think I hid behind my disease for so long because I thought life was too scary, too overwhelming, too full of disappointing others, and it was easier to barrel through my existence with crazy at the wheel in order to numb my sense of responsibility. But my meds delivered me to safety and sanity. They actually brought me to life.
I’m 35 now and I’d like to think I’m an exemplary patient. Well, I guess I can’t honestly claim that status considering I’m usually late to my therapy appointments and sometimes I forget to pick up my prescriptions when I’m down to my last capsule, but for the most part, I do what I need to to keep myself happy and healthy. Which admittedly looks kind of boring. Early bedtime, a fist full of pills chased with a glass of water, living sober, but I embrace the boring! I embrace the stability that my pills offer me.
After all these years I’ve finally learned that sanity looks good on me. I’ve done a complete bipolar makeover and the confidence I have regarding my illness has never been better, but it’s important - vital even - to understand that recovery is not linear. Sometimes medication can stop being effective over time. You plateau, you have to start over finding new meds, changing doses - the guesswork can be aggravating and even depressing. It can be scary feeling that control slip away because the blue tablets turn to dust in your mouth and do nothing else. I manage my illness better now but bipolar disorder has no cure and your pills don’t always promise to save your brain.
I’m more healthy than sick these days, but several years ago during a bout of hypomania I drove to see my therapist with my eyes closed. A year ago I struggled with the sound of voices in my head arguing over who had control of me. Last month my depression flared up and I spent four weeks crying and crying. Thoughts of suicide still haunt me and I know they always will. I take care of myself but that doesn’t mean my loud illness has left me, it just means it’s easier to shush.
My religion is routine medication rituals. Two pills in the morning and five pills at night. Owning my illness so I can look beyond it and find myself.
My psychiatric medication gifts me hope, optimism, and patience. When I find the right recipe I can be the best version of myself - the me I’m most proud of. I’m a professor, an advocate, a fan of tattoos and string cheese, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a pet mom who brushes her dogs’ teeth every day, and an author. And when I inevitably get sick again, I remind myself that I’ve been here before and come out the other side, and will continue to do so. My meds have made me so much more resilient and I know I’ll find stability again, it just might take some time. These days I don’t just do the bare minimum of existing, I’m purposeful with a palm full of pills because my medication gives me freedom.
Oh, and I love how white glittery eye shadow is making a comeback!
About the Author:
Dr. Rachel Kallem Whitman is an educator, advocate, and writer who has been shacking up with bipolar disorder since 2000. Rachel is an adjunct professor who teaches courses on unpacking ableism (disability oppression) and her speeches, interviews, and writings on the topic have garnered acclaim locally in her hometown of Pittsburgh, PA, across the United States, and internationally. Her debut book, “Instability in Six Colors,” paints a vivid picture of what it is like living with chronic mental illness, trauma, and a complicated relationship with sanity, safety, and suicide. Rachel’s mission and passion is to create a safe community to empower individuals to look beyond their illness to find themselves. You can buy this bipolar narrative through One Idea Press, a woman-owned independent press based out of Pittsburgh, PA, as a paper copy or ebook. For more of her work please be sure to check out Rachel’s website seebrightness.com and visit her Medium page.
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