Who's fault is it anyway?

Be warned to those close to me, there are truthes in this blog that have never been spoken.

I don't know exactly when I began to show signs of Mental Illness (I'm sure my mother does but still wont tell me because she feels that her love is stronger than my illness - for which I have much gratitude). I suspect, however, that my parents divorce was, most certainly, a catalyst for anything that may have been hiding under the surface to explode into my existence and into every decision I made there after.
 I began to show real signs of distress and difficulty managing my moods when I was about 12. this is when my life turned inside out and everything I knew to be real, crumbled around me. I sat stunned and bewildered alone in my bedroom, I became my only best friend for years to come.

I was not diagnosed with bipolar until I was about 23, So, I lived with Mental Illness for over a decade and went completely untreated.(except that my parents desperately kept trying to convince me to go to counselling, I of course hated every second of it and refused to participate most of the time).

Most people who suffer from bouts of depression are living in pain or anger over something (death, loss, illness) where these emotions are totally approiate to be with. Those emotions are "real" there is a valid, normal, solid reason for them. Bipolar is not the average mood disorder. It is a psychoaffective disorder that really often makes no sense, follows no rules and can be totally unpridictable. Bipolar resembles so much like the roller coaster of adolescents that very few doctors would diagnose a teenager with such a pervasive ailment. This means that as a youth living with undiagnosed and untreated bipolar, I managed really hurt a lot of people. I was out of control most of the time. I began to self medicate at 14 and boy oh boy did I ever love being blasted. This is also when I came out of my isolation and began to socialise. Under the influence of intoxicants I could stay in a mania for days and days, rarely sleeping. I would draw, paint, and write over night, school during the day and party all other times.  I went to all extremes in life in order to feel anything other than crazy. by the time I was 16 I had been pregnant and had an abortion, I was cutting myself and starving myself. I had been date raped, and had sex with too many guys for me to say (highly sexualised behaviour is a symptom)
 I was using booze and drugs when ever I could. I stole large amounts of money, or sold myself, to pay for these habits.(self medicating is very common). The only thing I could count on was that eventually there would be a depression. (My best friends mother knew by the sound of my voice what kind of day I was having). I slept, cried, and hid away from the world. I would paint darkness, I would write darkness and I would succom to darkness. I hated my life, I would drown my senses with meloncholy music to the point of driving my mother up the wall. Now, the substances were used for sleep aid. I discovered cold medcine and peach shnaps along with gravol and hash could numb all the pain that living with myself entailed. There was no specific source of destitution, I could find an excuse most of the time so "it" could make sense, but truth be told....It just hapend. I was too young, and with no diagnosis there was no help for me to know what was really going on, that I was ill, not bad.

 Over the course of my life I commited a large number of fuck ups, nothing involving the law thankfully. I took pride in my ability to sting people who attempted battle with me. I was amased at how it became so simple to use people for selfish purposes. My life became about anger and anyone who got in the way became victims of it. I truely thought I was in control of this anger, I didn't know how huge it really was at the time. I had no true friends at the time because I had alienated them all.  I had driven so many people away from me that I felt worthless and undeserving of a good life.

Now I ask, who's fault was all this, this life that has led me to a lifetime of addiction and insanity. Some say I made my own choices, but really I have to know, had I not been ill, lacking in judgment and impulse control, would I have made the same choices? Would I have become an addict if I had no reason to self medicate? Would I have hurt as many people if my manias didn't make me feel so self rightious and my depressons so angry? So much of my life is like a textbook case. For a person with Bipolar, Sexualised behaviour is normal, so is anger and self importance, as well and worthlessness and utter shame. Judgment is deeply impared during extreme highs and lows, So how do I accept responsibility when mental illness played a larger role in my life than my rationality. Not that I don't feel shame and regret, but how much of that shame do I need to carry? Once I was diagnosed, sure, it most certainly becomes my responsibility to care for myself and my own well being - even if that means allowing others to care for me when I cant. But even with the best securities put in place, it often is not enough. When in a manic state, I want nothing to do with coming down. I want to push it to the end because I get so much done. When in a depressive state, I can barely stand up to get out of bed let alone drag myself to the doctor or hospital. So how do I reconsile these differences. How do I find a ballance to what are my choices and what are choices based on being ill? I have spoken to a lot of people over time and no one can give a difinitive answer, So for now its up for debate.