Linda had gotten a vagus nerve stimulator implanted in her chest 3 years ago to help control seizures. It never really seemed to work and was giving her lots of problems. She had talked to doctors about getting it out, but felt like they never really listened to her. It was a point of growing stress.
On the night of July 10 I got several hysterical phone calls from her while I was at work. She told me that she was fed up with them lying to her and if they wouldn't take it out she would. I didn't take here serious. Who cuts their own chest open?
When I got home she was asleep and it was the next morning before I found out what had happened. She had cut a large gash in her chest and then took a hammer and beat herself in the chest trying to break the stimulator. Her chest was black and blue and badly swollen. She started up again and I told her if she didn't stop I was calling the police. She took off out the door.
I helped the police search for over 2 hours with no sign. I thought she was dead. Words can never explain what went through my mind during those forever two hours. We went back to search the house one more time. We found her hiding in a closet. She scared the police officer so bad he almost pulled out his gun and shot her.
That was the day we named our elephant. Linda was bipolar. It seems so obvious now. Linda's father it appears now had been bipolar. The brain surgery removed parts of her brain associated with management and regulation of moods. She believes now the bipolar disorder had always been there, just hidden in a thousand other battles. My kids and I had learned not just to walk on glass, but that there was glass everywhere. We still have to wear shoes, but over the last months the floor has finally been swept.
There is something about being able to call things by their right name that gives you freedom. What you can name you can see. What you can see you can live with. What you can live with you can triumph over. With medication, therapy, and lifestyle management we have finally found an answer to a question long unanswered. Hope need not be wishful thinking. It can be real.
We decided to tell our story. The more you share your hope with others the more that comes back to you. We started a new chapter of the DBSA in our county. The day before our first meeting the local paper ran our story, complete with pictures and all details. I'll never forget what one lady said in the first meeting. Crying she faced the group, "Tonight is the first time I have ever felt safe talking about what my life is like." I knew then hope does work.
Our website is hopeworkscommunity.com
