Your Stories

By Susan Todd Martin

I remember the feeling of being different than the other children, as early as grade school. I was made an example of. The other children disliked me for that, and I hated it. I wanted so much to be liked, to be “just like” them.

This feeling (I describe it as being painted green) became unbearable as I approached my teens. I tried drugs, and this was my ticket into the clique of “burnouts”. I was funny when I was high, always a clown. At home I also played the role, juggling my way thru dysfunction and emotional abuse.

Then the assaults happened: a night of drunken partying with older guys in the woods led to my shame. The spiral downward accelerated into being trafficked in the name of “love”, my illness made me oblivious to the danger. I desperately wanted to be seen, to be desirable, and I firmly believed I was. There was never any middle ground, it was all or nothing, and I could not bear being nothing.

My poor Mom had no clue, she didn’t even know I got high. She worked midnight shift, and my Dad was oblivious, and had told me I was disgusting for being promiscuous. I decided that if I couldn’t be good, I’d be the best at being bad. 

I WAS good at “being bad”. My full-blown Bipolar Disorder wrapped me up in its embrace, and away I went! Chasing adrenaline, nothing was too dangerous! The more outrageous my behavior the more my friends liked me! Always an artist, my work took on dark themes of death and rage. I painted my face and loved heavy metal music. I believed I was destined to be a rock star!

Eventually, I crashed. I jumped out of a moving car while on psychedelics, to escape an abuser. An attentive ER doctor recognized the symptoms and I told him the truth. At 15, the only drug I had not yet tried was heroin. He helped me talk to my Mom, and I was taken to Western Psychiatric Institute to a locked adolescent ward. Back then, in the early 80’s, I was just thought to be acting out, diagnosed with chronic depression. But I hid the true pain well. I had tried to end my life twice by this point.

This pattern of drug addiction, promiscuity, danger-seeking and self-destructive behavior went on for 23 years. From age 13 to 35 I was crossing the country: hitching rides, sleeping by interstates, riding on trains and living in state parks. I was proud of my violent nature and criminal acts. I really believed my life was a movie and I was the star.

Through the years, my Mom never gave up on me. She didn’t support me, or my lifestyle, but she learned everything she could. She never quit loving me. And when I finally came home 23 years later, she learned about Bipolar Disorder with me. She kept the faith when I struggled to find the right treatment. She took me to meetings, held me when I detoxed and listened to my pain pour out in night-long conversations. 

She is my best friend and greatest advocate, and never gave up on her broken daughter. Together we healed, and today I am 27 years clean and sober with my Bipolar symptoms in check. While she is not here anymore, her love helps me never give up. I have to stay vigilant and put in the work to take my meds, go to therapy and hang on tight when symptoms flare up. 

Through all the storms, she was beside me, believing in who I could be. I am looking forward to seeing her again, she will be so proud of who I have become. My illness was the fire, and I am the forged steel.

I no longer look back with regret, I move forward with hope!

(dedicated to Carol Lee Keele, 3/21/1936 to 3/21/2010)