That's what my brother started calling me when my mom made me tell my family I was bipolar 2 in college. Turned out I was misdiagnosed. I even took medication for awhile that was not needed and totally messed me up for about a year. It was a mood stabalizer, some strong stuff too that killed my persona. You see those movies where people are like numb and catatonic from their crazy meds, I was literally like that so I stopped on my own after a couple months. I have spent the last 7 years running from the stigma. For awhile anytime I was upset or cried my mom would hand me a cookie and tell me to go take my medicine. I hated her for that. For that and so many other things. Like making me tell people I was "mentally ill." With her it was all or nothing, we either don't even acknowledge I am depressed, not even to myself or we send out like announcements and emails that I am. She got all weird on em too. I was supposed to go visit someone in Washington and I wasn't allowed to go because it had the highest suicide rating sin the U.S. and I'd kill myself. I'd never even said anything about being that sick. People were like, well she cares. No, wasn't it. Leading up to that I had spent my teens telling my mom something was wrong and we needed to talk because we had zero communication since my parents had divorced and I was all alone. I had siblings to take care of but you can't confide in an eight and nine yr old. 1st she told me I was fine, only retarded people and idiots were head cases, did I want people thinking that about me? I was mortified so I went to my dad. But he had taken the divorce so hard he was in a major depression. Lost his job, got all crazy... he used to make me ditch school to keep him company and go to the beach and stuff. My senior yr I missed 65 days of school. Junior year my mom had sent me to a psych, she picked me up from school one day and dropped me off at an office behind a Taco Bell. She told me I had to see one because apparently I needed to talk. I told her I had meant her, I needed my mom and she said she couldn't do it. I went twice before realizing the Psych talked to my mom before my meetings so anytime id tell her what was going on, she had some counter point and shut me down. I eventually started making shit up and then stopped going. I realized real quick I was just going to have to take care of myself. Fast forward, after being kicked out of her house on my 18th bday I moved with my dad. A great man but a big teenager really. We fought like siblings and he'd get mad and break my stuff. Went to college, had good grades and a job and a fiance. One day my dad lost his job and some chick called me to tell me she was engaged to the same guy. I was the "other woman". We moved again. I moved out with some friends and went to school and worked but my family always made me feel like a loser. Like I could be doing more. Could have a 2nd job, a bf, I should drop some weight, etc. I had a break down and went and saw another Psych. I saw her one time. She met me right after I got off the phone with both my mom and dad and they were freaking out on how weak I was and I lost it. Cried to this lady I just met for about thirty minutes, told her everything which sounded like jibberish and she stops me. Points to this cartoon picture on the wall of two polar bears, one is standing n smiling with pink fur and one is lying down with a sad face and blue fur. "Have you ever heard of bipolar?" I told her I wasn't bipolar, I knew many of them and that wasn't me. She said she thought it was, stage 2 or some sh** and to take these pills. Wrote out a little prescription and told me to come back in a month. I was diagnosed as being bipolar after 1 thirty minute visit. To this day my friends are like, that lady was crazy. Maybe... So, having taken my new pills and then getting into a punching fight with my room mate Phil I moved, I packed up in the middle of the night, put all my stuff in my dads storage and drove 9 hours back to So Cal. Where I told my mom and she announced to everyone I had a mental break down and was on meds. I moved out a little later, had three jobs, bought a house, a car, etc. Then last yr I got laid off from the main one and quitting the other two, months before, my house foreclosed, no job, lost everything and if I started to say anything my family was like, Oh well. My job/life/situation is so much harder. I didn't break. I still haven't cried. That's what happened to me. I went from being this hugging, loving, emotional girl to someone that can't even cry. I stiffen when people hug me. I take that back. I cried when my dog was hit by a car two yrs ago, when my grandma died and for about 45 seconds when my boss let me go. I'm tough. I'm strong... I have no one to talk to. So here I am in my mothers loft where I am staying. 27 with a dog, a car and little remnants of the things I used to have. That's fine. I just wish I could help people. Helping them helps me because I know what it feels like to be hopeless and have NOBODY give a sh**. I know what it is like to sit there with a mouth full of pills (only once as a teen) and know that if I swallowed, that with one small almost involuntary motion I could end everything. How easy and quiet it would be. I thought of doing it too, I don't think I would have but I was there. I felt the tickle in my throat. I was in my room while my parents were off cheating and fighting and doing their thing. I didn't do it obviously. Sounds lame but I was sitting by a window and a breeze hit my face and went through me. I watched as a bunch of birds flew in a group by my window and up over the trees and then I looked out onto the valley below my house. At all the houses and trees and heard lawn mowers and kids in the distance. There was all this life going on around me and here I was planning to end it because in my bubble it was unlivable. I was like, only three years left. I started acting in school plays, joined choir and made more friends. I started writing and took up a million hobbies to overwhelm my mind because to this day if I stop too long... I start thinking and get sad. I want to live. I want to help people want to live and I am horrified that one day I might stop moving and it will all catch up with me and I'll off myself or something. In ways I am the strongest yet weakest person I know. I'm going back to school, for Pysch. I am paying my own bills with the money I come into and trying to be the best I can be... but I'm still branded Bipolar B****h, I am still their sick daughter. I just want to be happy. I'm forcing it. I'm failing. You don't have to respond and kudos if you read it all, I just needed to vent.