THE (BIPOLAR) WRITER'S LIFE

By Claire G

Back in 2017, I was a college freshman at a large state university. Having taken Chinese language classes all throughout high school, it wasn’t a question that I’d continue in college and eventually become a teacher or translator. So, my natural next step was to study abroad in China. I had never left the country and didn’t realize my immaturity at the time—my brain wasn’t “fully cooked,” as a friend of mine says, which apparently doesn’t happen until twenty-five. Not knowing of or caring about the challenges of being abroad, I convinced my parents to spend way too much money and send me to a lesser-known Chinese city, Harbin, for six weeks. It was supposed to be ten, but as in the lives of most people with bipolar, I had an incident. An incident so severe I had to be sent home.

I have written about and analyzed this manic episode, encompassing the summer and fall of 2017, for seven years. I don’t think I’ll ever fully grasp it. Partly because I don’t remember all of it, and partly because I am bewildered by psychosis. What kind of force takes over the brain, disconnects the mind from all sense, and causes absolute terror. That was the most significant and memorable emotion I felt: terror. The symptoms started as minor, with my speech and energy ramping up. Sleep evaded me, to a point where I spent nights pacing the hallways of my dorm building. Then came the said terror-inducing symptoms.

Being in China, I was in an environment surrounded by people who don’t look like me (I’m white). People did double-takes and snapped photos as I passed them. This didn’t bother me for most of the trip—I understood how rare an IRL white-person sighting was for them—but this grew to a feeling of paranoia, as if I was being targeted. At the same time, grandiosity made me believe I could speak Chinese fluently, though in reality I was hardly conversational. This made me go up to strangers and, I’m sure, act in an alarming manner. My behavior worried people. Something was definitely different.

To make a very complex story simple, my university found me a last-minute ticket back home. Being psychotic during a thirteen-hour flight is something I wish upon no one. My parents anxiously waited for me at the gates. They believed they could take me home and everything would be fine. My behavior soon proved I required a stay in a psychiatric ward, and I was placed in one for roughly two weeks, with doctors trying to figure out what was up with me. They labeled me with “acute psychosis” at first, not mania, because they were unsure what might have happened in China; the doctors had little knowledge of East Asian culture or medicine. The hospital was in a small Midwestern city, predominantly white, so I can’t really blame them.

My episode went on for months after my hospital stay, and for a few years I dealt with something close to PTSD. It was hard to fly in airplanes or even visit my grandmother in the hospital—it reminded me of the fluorescent lights and sickly smell I hated. Like I mentioned earlier, it’s been seven years since then. I’ve matured immensely. I got my degree in English Literature and decided to keep a minor in Chinese language. Taking the publishing route rather than translation, I’ve edited almost thirty books in my career so far, written sales copy for car companies, and started my own company. I still deal with the aforementioned stress, self-berating, and irritability most days. Companions of my diagnosis. Ones I’d rather keep as distant acquaintances.

Even though I write often, even for fun, I suck at endings. I’m not sure how I want to close this. Maybe: persist, but let yourself wallow. Let yourself feel your feelings, and let yourself be upset when painful memories arise. There’s always another day—the sun will rise again, and even though it’ll take effort, stand up to your full height and let it warm your skin. This “sun” could be your best friend, a jog around the block, or a late-night movie with kettle corn. The small healing it induces will settle in you, calm your swirling thoughts. That’s my best remedy for when my disorder bites me in the ass, and I hope it’ll work for you too—just do me a favor and try it.