Being normal isn’t something I know how to be. I try…but ha ha! Joke is on me. I’m not normal. Far from it. Of course, some people say that being mentally ill is a huge attribute to being a creative genius…which I won’t lie, that does make it a lot smoother to digest. But then again, I’m not a genius either.

And to be honest…my creativity started with lying.

I was a gifted liar back in the day. Oh the stories I could tell, all woven together nicely and always with a pinch of casual indifference to make it sound plausible. I remember distinctly my very first whopper of a lie:

I was in preschool…a terrible place located in my hometown of Phenix City, AL. (Yes, I am spelling it correctly, look it up if you don’t believe me. I’m not lying.) The daycare center was awful, truly awful. I hated that place. My teacher, Miss Becky was a witch of a woman and I still hate her to this day. I hope she’s reading this, because if she is… I want her to know she had terrible breath.

But I digress.

So this whopper of a lie I told was about a family friend. This family friend whom we’ll simply call “Amy” (This is her real name, but I’m not giving you her last name so it is still anonymous, right?) was somewhat of a local celebrity. She was Miss Phenix City sometime in the 1970’s or maybe 1960’s, I forget which, left PC and went on to become a model in New York City. She landed a cool gig as a hair color model. Her face was on the auburn red hair color box the entire decade of the 1980’s.  I felt  great about my status as someone who knew someone that was on a hair color box. (Wouldn’t you? Don’t lie.) On this particular day, I was sitting in a chair talking to my preschool teacher and teacher aides. I told them that Amy was getting married that weekend and I was going to be the flower girl. Yes, that’s right…the flower girl. And my dress was going to be long and pink and beautiful and I was going to have my hair done by one of her stylists. Except of course, I did not call them stylists, but “Hair Cutter People.” I was after all, a three year old.

I enjoyed the status of these adults fawning over me. This is also not a lie: these women with nothing better to do with their lives…were actually feeling like they were somebody because they were talking to this three year old who actually knew a SOMEBODY.  This was something they could each tell their Hair Cutter Person! And hey… maybe…they would get a discount on their Dorothy Hamill haircut. (For knowing a three year old who knew a face on the hair color box! This is big stuff!)

But leave it to my mother, always the killjoy, to blow my cover. When one of the teacher’s aides asked about the wedding and my role as the prestigious flower girl, my mother told them there was not going to be any such wedding. Amy was not getting married, and since she was not getting married or having this big lavish wedding, I was not a flower girl.

I simply walked away from the situation. They really didn’t need me there. My job was done.

I had a lot of rages growing up. Terrible rages…more severe than your average temper tantrum.

Along with my creative storytelling (okay, lies, but whatever) I had  out of control rages which included, but not limited to, hitting, screaming, and pulling out my own hair along with spit foaming at the mouth. Acting like this does not help one’s social life. Just saying.

I was a mess. I still am…sometimes.

I was first diagnosed with bipolar* in 2002, but I took the diagnosis with a grain of salt. “Oh labels…I’m way too awesome for labels.” I took Lithium and Lexapro for about three months…whenever I thought about it. I had recently suffered a miscarriage and decided I didn’t have bipolar, but postpartum depression…which I probably did have ALONG with being bipolar. I went off my medication and a few months later, was pregnant again.

Things were okay for a few years. But not without the occasional throes of mood swings and rages often inflicted on my husband. In my defense, it was always well deserved.  I mean, really, doesn’t he know how to breathe correctly? And what about that one time he sat down on the couch and the couch cushion was squished. I mean, REALLY!

After a three year phase of being completely manic* I crashed. And when I say ‘crashed’ I mean… Crashed with a terrible thud. Of course, there were signs: the emotional aggravations, lashing out at friends, impatient, shopping sprees, endless energy and mood swings. Adding a little more adventure to my already out of whack hormones: my doctor who had no idea I had bipolar gives me…wait for it…

PROZAC.

When a person is bipolar and takes an antidepressant without the protection of a mood stabilizer it will induce mania and worsen the illness. Along with Prozac, I was also taking Wellbutrin…which GIRL PLEASE. I had the energy of twenty Infantry Rangers, but you know, with boobs and wearing my newly purchased high heels and other cool ‘stuff’.

In August, I was hospitalized with depression. I was in a dark and dreary place and hospitalization was the only answer. I wasn’t diagnosed with bipolar. I was so depressed that I wasn’t even in the frame of mind to give my doctor the actual facts. I just wanted to feel better. I wanted to stop wanting to die.

A couple of months ago, I went to see a psychiatrist and I gave it to her straight. I told her everything.  The medication I had been taking since my hospital stay was working, but it was working in the way of my staying afloat. I still had depression and spent plenty of days in my bedroom with the covers over my head. Now with the proper diagnosis, I’m taking new medications. I’m still adjusting. I’m dealing with the side effects.  I’ve gained twelve pounds in two weeks…which if you know me and my issues with weight…THIS IS NOT COOL.

I still have bad days. I have anxiety; I am still working through the depression. I still have days when I cry and feel as if all is a loss cause. But I work through it. If  I don’t do this for myself, I do it for my children and husband. In my darkest days, I may think I’m not worth it…but they are.

I make a conscience effort everyday to tell the truth, because truth should be the core of one’s existence. I want to be known as an honest person with integrity, even if it means I don’t have exciting stories to tell. I choose not to lie.

The difference with how I deal with being bipolar and having depression is this: I do not let this illness control me: I control IT. It’s that simple. It isn’t a compromise or open for debate. That’s the way it is. I mind the gap between this illness and my soul. It doesn’t define me. I will control it to the day I die.

And again, if you know me…you know I’m really good at being controlling.

It’s all part of my charm.

* http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/bipolar-disorder/complete-index.shtml

* Life of the party

Jaime Kay Chase

Jaime Kay Chase is the Creative Director for Domesticating in High Heels. She is a writer having written two books, The Beauty of June and her memoir, By The Way, A Memoir of Religion, Abuse and Redemption. She is a public speaker, event planner and child care coordinator. She lives in Anchorage with her husband and their four children. To contact Jaime Kay, email jaimekaychase@gmail.com