Years of undiagnosed bipolar disorder has more than prepared me for the latest blog assignment from @lyxzen @rambo and @missy.
There are myriad crazy things I've done in my life that I could pick from, but I think the winner has to be a rather impromptu trip to London I took in what would have been my senior year of college in October of 2004. (Never give a young woman who isn't exactly sure why she's so impulsive a credit card, let's just say that). That year was probably the most tumultuous year of my life. The summer I was homeless was more than likely the climax and the following autumn and winter were a rather wretched denouement. I was in so much emotional turmoil and pain. I suffered from frequent panic attacks, periods of depression, and inexplicable periods of uncomfortable euphoria. I cut myself. I stayed out all night getting high and drunk on whatever I could find. And all the while I had a boyfriend whom I met on this site who lived across the pond.
One sunny fall afternoon, he called me and for some reason we got into an argument.
Perhaps it was because I was looking for a way out anyway. Or maybe I was looking for something exciting. Regardless of what it was I found myself buying a plane ticket for the following day. I could see myself doing what I was doing, silently shouting to myself that what I was doing wasn't the best course of action, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't help myself. Part of bipolar disorder, part of what makes you sick, is seeing that what you're doing isn't exactly right but being completely unable to control yourself.
I convinced myself that I had to go because I had to save my relationship.
(If you feel so inclined and have oodles of time, you can probably go back to the fall of 2004 here on SG and find my old blog posts from back then. You can compare the Iggy from today to the Iggy of yesterday and realize that I'm so much cooler now.)
I flew out on what I believe was a Tuesday evening. The weather was unseasonably warm and I was sweating slightly under my layers. I was stopped at every security checkpoint at JFK because I had bought my ticket less than 24 hours earlier and I wasn't checking any baggage. They grilled me over and over as to why I was going to London, who I was seeing, and what I planned on doing there. I'm sure they thought I was some sort of drug mule. After all the check points, screenings, and waiting in the terminal I boarded the plane and found out why the tickets were sold at a severely reduced rate. The plane was at half capacity. In that way it was the best trans Atlantic flight I've ever been on. I had a whole row of three seats to myself and the crew encouraged us to sprawl out however we would like.
To be honest, I don't remember much from when I landed the next morning at Heathrow to when I left six days later. I guess it was just a typical trip to London to visit my boyfriend. But I do remember when my mom finally tracked me down. She called my boyfriends house in utter despair and anger, asking what the hell was wrong with me, that they were on the verge of listing me as a missing person. At the time, I defended my actions. I think back to that moment now and I cringe in embarrassment. There is no excuse for putting your loved ones through so much pain, but I guess the pain I was feeling myself clouded any semblance of good judgement I had.
The severity of the situation hadn't really hit me until I was on the plane on the way back to JFK. It hit me the moment I could see the movement of the waves of the Long Island Sound as the plane descended.
I think it was that sudden and incredibly impulsive trip that solidified in my moms head that there was something more wrong with me than the typical impulsive behavior of a spoiled young woman who is freshly 22. Of course, I wouldn't see it until years later.
I didn't return to school in the spring. Instead, my mom convinced me to move back home to 'regroup'. It was a blessing in disguise. Had I never taken that trip I think I would have been encouraged to stay in school. Unraveling at the pace I was I would have been dead from an overdose or suicide before the New Year.
So the 'craziest thing I've ever done' is neither humorous or zany. It doesn't have a movie style happy ending. You can't tie it up in a neat little package. It's not a story I tell while intoxicated in order to elicit a positive response. I guess I shared it with you all because it's indeed the craziest thing I've ever done and I like being honest.
Anyway, as a reward for your patience please accept these risque pictures:
