I shall never forget the summer of 2000. I had said goodbye to my friends at WycliffeCollege. I lived alone. Worked alone. I isolated myself. Friends would call me. But I wouldn’t answer the phone.

Bipolar disorder, with its many ravaging faces, had stalked me for 28 years. During manic phases, I’d lost jobs, squandered money I didn’t have and engaged in casual sex. When I became depressed, it left me so debilitated I hid under my bedcovers for days.

But that particular summer, depression wrapped itself around me like an iron cloak I couldn’t shake off. Each moment dragged like eternity. I sank into despair. Life became unbearable. I had only one recourse—suicide.

I planned it all. Researched the Compendium of Pharmaceuticals and Specialties: The Canadian Drug Reference for Health Professionals. Read what dose of the medications I had would cause a coma. Just take more than that. Way, way more. That should cause death.

On the pre-arranged night, I placed the vials of meds on my kitchen counter. One by one, I emptied them all. Between gulping glasses of milk. Then I lay down on my bed. “Tonight is my last night.”

Dad found me lying in a coma eleven days later. He rushed me to the hospital.

My kidneys had shut down completely. Liz, my sister said, “At one time, twelve doctors were working together on the dialysis machine. To flush out all the poisons from your system.”

I had stopped breathing. The doctors hooked me up to a ventilator.

But they offered no hope. They said to Dad, “Your daughter will be a vegetable for life. You’ll have to send her for warehousing.”

As soon as my pastor heard what had happened, he called up my closest friends. They held two prayer meetings. And begged the Lord to heal me. A few days later, I regained consciousness. Clearly, the Lord still had work for me to do.

But I couldn’t speak. I tried to communicate with pencil and paper, but it was a struggle. Why wasn’t my hand obeying the messages my brain was sending?

It was a long slow process to recovery. I still have the childish scrawls—very different from my usual, beautiful script—my attempts to ‘speak’ with family and friends.

And my leg muscles had grown flaccid. Just after three weeks of lying immobile on my back. I had to learn to walk again. First with a four-wheeled walker, then a pair of crutches and finally a cane. 

“You won’t be working for a long time,” my GP said, during my first visit with him after my discharge from the hospital. And for the next couple of years, I believed him! I didn’t work.

Then I heard about Biz Futures—a program designed for adults with disabilities who wish to start and run our own small businesses. I phoned the coordinator of the program. And became a student there. Experts taught us all aspects of what it takes to run a business:

• Marketing strategies
• Presentation skills
• Business operations
• Pricing strategies
• Time management
• Mission statements
• Positioning
• Market research
• Business vision
• Business finance
• Stress management

I graduated from the program. Ready to run my business.

Today I earn a living by offering professional writing services and speaking to audiences about what it’s like to live with mental illness.

I still struggle with the cycles of bipolar disorder. But I’ve made a vow to myself. I shall never put my family through such agony again. I now take serious measures—practise my unique personal medicine—to manage my illness for my sake and my family’s. These measures include:

• Medications: I take them every night.
• Exercise: I walk every chance I get. To the bank. The psychiatrist’s office. The grocery store. The studio where I paint. And I walk fast. This releases the endorphins—the “feel good” hormones.
• Routine: I wake up at the same time each morning and try to go to bed at the same time each night.
• Socializing: I live alone. So it’s very important for me to connect with other human beings. I book dates (coffee, lunch or dinner) with family and friends.
• Taking care of Mom: She lives in a nursing home. Mom has raised five children single-handedly. No mean task. I visit her three times a week. And always cook a little food for her. Just a tiny gesture to show my gratitude. I can never repay her. She sacrificed her entire life for her children. The greatest gift I can offer Mom? My time.
• Creative outlet: Just a few years ago, I took up painting. And I enjoy this so much.
• Earning a living: I cannot work in an office from 9:00–5:00 because of my mental health problems. But I can work around these issues by running my own business. Working again has greatly empowered me: I enjoy a renewed sense of healing, self-esteem, pride and dignity.

Contact me for all your professional writing and mental health advocacy needs.