It seems to me that most of us self-medicate with some form of escape mechanism in order to forget about the rather “trivial” traumas that plague our daily life’s existence. I know for me, not getting CC’d on an “important” work email could easily trigger me to check out into oblivion with a bottle of wine after work. Waking up with that impending sense of doom when scrolling through my call log after a “fun Saturday night on the town,” or worse, looking at my bank transactions could easily propel me to indulge in a day of popping Adderall and champagne bottles and dancing on tables for a “Sunday Funday” escape, rather than facing the real life choices and their haunting repercussions on my mental health that I was making.

It wasn’t a DUI or a night spent in jail that made me finally want to seek a way out, it was the look in my boyfriend’s eyes when I knew he had lost all faith in my ability to ever get my shit together. It was the sickness I felt in my gut when recalling how I’d spilled my best friend’s secrets to any old acquaintance that I found myself “bonding with” while staying up all night. It was these small moments that added up and begged me to take a hard look at my life, at my choices, at the person staring back at me in the mirror. I found that not only had I no respect for myself, but also, I didn’t even really like the person I saw staring back at me. I drank and used both in celebration of or to run from my feelings, never giving it a second thought that maybe the root cause of those feelings, is what actually needed to be addressed. The highs I’ve experienced needed to be quelled and the lows needed a boost and I knew exactly the right formula to make me forget how awesomely-good or devastatingly-bad I felt. Drugs and alcohol may have been harmful to my life in many ways, but they merely masked a deeper problem, one far more difficult to treat.

When I did in fact get sober, I found that my coping mechanisms (i.e., drugs and alcohol) were but a mere symptom, just one layer of the onion, in the multitude of issues I seemed to face. Life is hard, and “living life on life’s terms” seemed impossible without my trusty tool kit of uppers and downers to navigate me through the waves.

Shortly after I got sober, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, and upon removing the self-medicated veil I had hid behind for so long, I became aware of a deeper set of problems that needed to be solved. I thought the answer was in practicing abstinence, perhaps throwing an anti-depressant into the mix, and when that didn’t work, I sought help from the 12 steps. The 12 steps greatly transformed my outlook on life and helped me to become a much more self-aware and caring individual, but going to meetings, helping others, and prayer couldn’t prevent my mental illness from striking back at four years of sobriety. I did everything I knew how to do to make me “better,” but I still ended up losing my career, strapped to a gurney and being rushed to a mental hospital in Torrance, California.

The struggle to find adequate help when suffering from dual disorders in this country is real. Even I, who unlike so many people, had an incredibly strong support system, persevered through years of depression, mania, substance abuse and psychosis. It took me a good 25 years of therapy and eight years of sobriety to properly get diagnosed and then another three years of hospitalizations, inpatient treatment, and intensive outpatient therapy in combination with the right cocktail of pharmaceuticals under the care of one of the country’s most qualified psychiatrists to finally arrive at a well-balanced solution.

Ultimately, I found that I had to completely surrender, while at the same time, never giving up on myself in order to find the gold that lay deep within. I am proud to say that recovery is possible, but for me it’s been a very personal and individual battle. A complex solution was needed for a complex set of problems.

An estimated 8.2 million people suffer from Dual Diagnosis according to the most recently issued government survey (1). However, I believe this number to be grossly understated considering these numbers only account for people aged 18 or older in the civilian, non-institutionalized population in the United States. What about the substantial homeless population that is considered to be seriously mentally ill and most likely suffer from co-existing conditions? Shouldn’t they count? Thus, despite the fact that the number of adults with substance use disorder and adult mental illness aged 18 and over corresponded to only 3.4 percent of the adult population, the number is surely much higher than that.

According to the same study, within the 18–25-year-old age group, 6.1 percent suffered from co-occurring disorders. That is almost twice the overall percentage rate. Why could this be? One explanation is that more young adults aged 18–25 are struggling with mental illness and substance use disorder than ever before, or more likely, the older people get, the likelier they are to phase out of society: living a life on the streets or having been incarcerated. These are the forgotten souls with no survey-able-footprint, whose lives filter in and out of the system.

Our country needs to band together to help these young adults find an appropriate treatment for their afflictions before they too, fall off the grid. Thus, in concurrence with Dual Diagnosis Day, I am launching a new company today, as well, called A Way Out Recovery Solutions (2). The company focuses on connecting to the 18–25-year-old demographic through social media by providing them with hope, resources, and individualized solutions for recovery tailored to their unique needs.

From my perspective, the key to a happy life, no matter who you are, lies in finding balance, purpose, support, and community. What’s normal to one person is completely out of control to another. The task is not to judge your own or anyone else’s path, but to truly find the right balance that works for you. Many people in 12 step programs say that their drug of choice is “more,” so why shouldn’t their solution be the same?

So how do you know if you are suffering from dual diagnosis? I don’t think most people do. I think that most people think of dual diagnosis as the aforementioned poor unfortunate souls that society has turned its back on. No one thinks about the “high functioning case” sitting in the office next to yours, riddled with anxiety, depression, or a mood disorder, heavily partying on the weekends or forever unwinding with a “glass” of wine after work. It is my view that many people who suffer from mental unrest abuse drugs and/or alcohol, but don’t necessarily identify as having a mental illness, alcoholism or a drug addiction, because…maybe they don’t. Substance use disorder ranges from mild, to binge, to heavy drinking. No doctor will ever diagnose you with alcoholism. It’s not an all or nothing diagnosis…we are way more than the boxes and categories that society would like to put us in.

If I could have one wish for Dual Diagnosis Day, it would be for each one of you to be able to experience the breathtaking beauty that I am now, after understanding dual diagnoses, able to find in the present moment. The struggle to recover may appear painstakingly real, but what lay on the other side if you do in fact push through it, can result in a miraculous transformation in to thy authentic self.

So, I ask you to think about what it is you want to change in your life and why you aren’t doing it? Achieving your dreams is a real possibility, but it takes a lot of really hard work. We all have the opportunity to be more than our current self-image, our diagnoses, to make choices and to take back control of our lives. We can all get there. We not only have the opportunity to get better, we can all be better. We can be more.

You are bound to stumble, to cry, to bang your head against the wall, wondering how did “I” ever get “here” — but you are bound to succeed if you hang in there! If you believe that there truly is light at the end of the tunnel, that no matter how big of a mountain or small of a molehill you are faced with climbing, that you can and you will reach the other side if you just keep putting one foot in front of the other. The journey is circular, not linear. Remember: You were born to be more. Whatever that means to you, go after it.

#REWRITEYOURLIFE #JOINTHEMOVEMENT

Sources:

(1) Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. (2017). Key substance use and mental health indicators in the United States: Results from the 2016 National Survey on Drug Use and Health (HHS Publication No. SMA 17–5044, NSDUH Series H-52). Rockville, MD: Center for Behavioral Health Statistics and Quality, Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. Retrieved from https://www.samhsa.gov/data/

(2) For more detailed information, please visit us at www.awayoutrecovery.com (Official launch 18 May 18)

Today May 15, 2018 is the first ever Dual Diagnosis Day! I know what you might be thinking… a) What is dual diagnosis? b) Do we really need another awareness day? and c) Why should I care?

Well, the answer, like the problem, is complex. And YES…you should care about dual diagnosis. In fact, in a recent government study, an estimated 8.2 million adults live with dual diagnosis in the United States (1). However, this study neither accounts for individuals who are homeless, the non-institutionalized population, or those who are unaware of their condition.

Although the definition of dual diagnosis or co-occurring disorders is “the coexistence of both a diagnosed mental disorder and a substance use disorder (1)” I believe that we all lie somewhere along the dual diagnosis spectrum. It is such a complicated nest of illnesses that can’t be defined in such black and white terms. In fact, it’s precisely that kind of “all or nothing” thinking that prevents many individuals from ever finding true happiness or a greater sense of wellbeing.

Do we really need another awareness day?

The reason an awareness day is necessary is because very few people know what dual diagnosis is. How is one supposed to fully recover from something if they are not privy to the root cause of their condition?

In my experience, it wasn’t a DUI or a night spent in jail that made me finally want to seek a way out, it was the look in my boyfriend’s eyes when I knew he had lost all faith in my ability to ever get my life together. It was the sickness I felt in my gut when recalling how I’d spilled my best friend’s secrets to any old acquaintance that I found myself “bonding with” while staying up all night. It was these small moments that added up and begged me to take a hard look at my life, at my choices, at the person staring back at me in the mirror. I found that not only had I no respect for myself, but also, I didn’t even really like the person I saw staring back. I drank and used both in celebration of or to run from my feelings, never giving it a second thought that maybe the root cause of those feelings, is what actually what needed to be addressed.

What do you do if you may be living with dual diagnosis?

So how do you know if you may be suffering from dual diagnosis? I don’t think most people do.

If you think that you may be struggling with co-existing disorders, or if you would like to know more about the subject, there are many ways in which to get started.

In my experience, it was necessary to assess what it was about my life that I wanted to change and focused on making that happen how I saw fit. You can try something similar. There are also treatment options out there, like inpatient and outpatient treatment centers designed to cater to individuals living with dual afflictions. There are also mental health professionals, such as psychologists or counselors, self-help tools like 12 step meetings, and government funded programs that can be of service to you.

The struggle to find adequate help when suffering from dual disorders in this country is real. It took me 25 years of therapy and eight years of sobriety to properly get diagnosed and then another three years of hospitalizations, inpatient treatment, and intensive outpatient therapy in combination with the right mix of medications under the care of one of the country’s most qualified psychiatrists to finally arrive at a well-balanced solution.

Ultimately, I found that I had to completely surrender, while at the same time, never giving up on myself in order to find the gold that lay deep within. I am proud to say that recovery is possible, but for me it’s been a very personal and individual battle. A complex solution was needed for a complex set of problems.

From my perspective, the key to a happy life, no matter who you are, lies in finding balance, purpose, support, and community. What’s normal to one person may not the same for another individual. The task is not to judge your own or anyone else’s path, but to truly find the right balance that works for you.

How can I help?

In support of Mental Health Month in the U.S. and Mental Health Awareness Week in the U.K., I ask that you support the First Annual Dual Diagnosis Awareness Day by flashing the “V” sign, more commonly known as the peace sign, in support of those doubly suffering from co-occurring mental illness and substance use disorder. Post the picture to your social media accounts, apply the #V4DualDiagnosis hashtag, and tag @doublewinnersclub, @trewrussellbrand and @mentalhealthamerica in the picture to spread awareness and fight stigma.

Credited to Winston Churchill, the famous double winner, we thought the “V” the perfect symbol to stand for both dual illnesses and dual recoveries. The sign indicates victoire (“victory” in French) and vrijheid (“freedom” in Dutch), and as such, it is the perfect symbol to celebrate awareness as well as recovery along the co-occurring spectrum. Dual diagnosis recovery treatment is in its nascent stages and needs your help to spread the word. Help give this movement a voice. We need YOU!

If you remember nothing else from this day, know that you matter and that your voice needs to be heard to help the millions out there suffering in silence. You can not only get better, you can be more than you were before. Whatever that means to you, go after it.

Please also consider donating to the cause for Mental Health America to continue research and to spread awareness in the future. Let’s go viral! https://www.gofundme.com/dual-diagnosis-day

Sources:

(1) Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. (2017). Key substance use and mental health indicators in the United States: Results from the 2016 National Survey on Drug Use and Health (HHS Publication No. SMA 17–5044, NSDUH Series H-52). Rockville, MD: Center for Behavioral Health Statistics and Quality, Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. Retrieved from https://www.samhsa.gov/data/

Originally published at www.mentalhealthamerica.net on May 15, 2018.

1. Let go and let loose. When people know that you’ve (literally) lost your mind, they are pretty sympathetic towards you. This understanding allows you to reach for the stars and chase your dreams without worrying about losing face, as no one expects that much from you anyway — plus, everyone loves an underdog!

2. And the Award for Most Entertaining/Awkward Story goes to…you! People love to hear wacky stories about otherwise proper ladies behaving in out of character and absurd ways. Here’s a personal story (and just the tip of the craziness iceberg): I’ve been hospitalized for demanding a DNA test at the UCLA Medical Center ER to prove I was descended from the Egyptian goddess Isis…Carrie Fisher put it best when she said, “If my life wasn’t funny, it would just be true, and that’s unacceptable.”

3. I feel you, man. Losing my mind has allowed me to truly empathize with all types of people and has shown me the ones who are worth maintaining solid relationships with. Having bipolar separates the people who love you unconditionally from those who don’t. It’s really that simple.

4. First Rate Self-Care. You learn how to take really good care of yourself. Part of managing bipolar disorder requires one to prioritize sleep, exercise, medication compliance, and managing stress levels. Treating yourself like the princess you once believed you were is pivotal to one’s recovery.

5. I’m high on life. There is no better drug you’ll ever take than a sweet, sweet fix of hypomania. It truly beats any other mind-altering substance I’ve tried (and I’ve tried a lot of them). You’re no longer afraid of life. Having experienced the highest of highs (I was convinced that I was next coming of Jesus) to the lowest of lows (bipolar sufferers have extraordinarily high rates of suicide), there is no feeling I haven’t survived.

Should you find yourself engaged in conversation with someone with bipolar disorder, don’t treat them as though they’re so fragile they might kill themselves at any moment. Dare to get to know someone with this disorder. Ask them about their craziest story or what creative passion fuels their heart. In short, just treat them the way you would want to be treated. After all, that’s the Golden Rule — and the key to a greater understanding of those different from you.

Mental Health, Self-Care, Community, Motivation

The Thrive Global Community welcomes voices from many spheres. We publish pieces written by outside contributors with a wide range of opinions, which don’t necessarily reflect our own. Learn more or join us as a community member!

Originally published at www.thriveglobal.com.

I suppose that when you marry someone you met two months prior while consumed by a psychotic episode in a ceremony officiated by some sketchy minister, people are bound to question the validity of your love. However, in my book, that doesn’t make the vivid daydream-turned-nightmare any less real. Just because I got better doesn’t mean my heart didn’t break in the process. I remember studying his haggard face, seeing how his once-piercing blue eyes had turned a dull shade of gray. He’d changed, I’d changed, we had both moved on. While I went home to South Carolina to the care of my loving parents, he had to fend for himself on the streets of LA, cycling in and out of boarding care, rehab, and dozens of hospitals. I saw the system fail him in a very real way.

So were we just playing house? I mean, it felt real. The drugs and alcohol were real. The sex was real. The delusions and hallucinations were real. But so was the love. When does someone get to have a legit marriage? Is it when both partners are deemed “sane” and live in a house with a white picket fence, 2.5 kids, and a labradoodle? Who gets to decide?

Here’s my take: I meant those vows when I made them and I meant it when I said goodbye. When I told him that I was going out for a sandwich and headed straight for the airport, I felt that my life was in real danger. But it also felt like my heart was smashed into a million pieces. I cried myself to sleep that night — and for many nights after. In fact, my eyes are welling up as I write this. You see, something that most people don’t understand is that shared psychosis is a real thing and you don’t know you’re in Never-Never Land until you wake up from the nightmare.

I go by Brooke Bresnan Hilton because that is currently my legal name. I never bothered to change it back after the divorce. Why? I’m not entirely sure. Part of me gets a kick out of using the name to make reservations at fancy restaurants, and most of me doesn’t feel like Brooke Bresnan anymore. But I don’t necessarily think I’m a Hilton, either. Perhaps I’m somewhere in between. I know I was profoundly changed by my psychotic episode, a time I will forever remember as the most defining period of my life. I feel so distant from the person I once was.

So now I ask: what do we actually know about anyone else’s reality? Who are we to judge the validity of anyone else’s experience? We all want to be loved, valued, and heard. We all have rights, and we all have a voice. My name is Brooke B. Hilton, and my marriage was 100% real.

My main concern is that there is not enough affordable housing in the United States to successfully conquer this problem. American attitudes need to change about the chronically homeless population. If the United States is to eradicate the chronically homeless problem that plagues the streets and hearts of our communities, we need more Housing First projects. We need to be open to the idea that housing is a basic human right in every neighborhood for everyone. It is my hope that every human, even those with the most difficult circumstances, will be given the second chance at life they deserve.

I have recently been placed in an internship at Charlotte-Mecklenburg Community Support Services, where I will focus on counseling and case management for the chronically homeless. The chronically homeless are a population who are plagued by long periods of homelessness, severe mental health issues and substance abuse. A population I narrowly scathed by because of the love, support and, let’s be honest, money I received from my family.

Born into an upper middle class family in Darien, Connecticut, it seemed like I had it all. My father was an investment banker and my mother was an accomplished homemaker and philanthropist. I grew up privileged. I excelled in school and went on to become an investment banker myself. I pursued an MBA from a prestigious university in New York and worked as a Vice President in Institutional Sales for a large asset manager in Manhattan. As the stress started to become more and more taxing, I experienced my first manic episode in May of 2011 and was diagnosed with bipolar 1 disorder with psychotic features. A few months later, I was laid off from my job. I moved to Beverly Hills to enjoy a more laid back career in private banking. I began to recover and worked my way up in Venture Capital Banking in Santa Monica, California.

Then one day, I woke up and everything I had worked so hard for disappeared in a sparkly technicolor hue right before my eyes. I was taking medication, I was four years sober, I was having a manic episode and I was a psychotic mess. There I sat in the psych ward, helpless, a part of the system, and I was unable to check myself out. I refused to eat, I couldn’t sleep, I was scared to death. I just couldn’t comprehend what had happened to me. When I was released, I went to a 30-day treatment center in Malibu for mental health issues. I refused to accept I was bipolar and would only acknowledge I had experienced a Kundalini Awakening. Thus, I refused to take the anti-psychotic medication and I made it 28 of 30 days at the treatment center. When I got back to my apartment, I was behind on rent, I was getting handfuls of medical bills in the mail and I was in shock from losing my career. My anxiety got so bad, I could barely leave the house and certainly not without drinking to take the edge off.

The featured picture shows me with the dog I purchased while manic, believing he was in fact the reincarnation of the Egyptian God, Anubis, while I was in fact the reincarnation of Isis. A lot has changed since then… I was psychotic for over a year and I battled substance abuse and acceptance of my mental illness as I recovered. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. Realizing I wasn’t God and that I was in fact sick, so sick that my 12 year career went down the drain in a matter of days. So sick that I reached out to everyone I knew to tell them about the enlightenment process I was experiencing…

Luckily, once I got on the right medication, it began to work and I got sober again, I realized I didn’t want to go back in to finance. I decided I wanted to help dually diagnosed people with severe mental health illnesses recover, like I had. I enrolled at University of Southern California to get my Masters in Social Work and I developed a plan of action. I knew it was my calling to help those who had suffered like I had, to show others the same unwavering love and support my family had shown me. It is my understanding that many of us are one bad day away from falling into oblivion and it is our basic human right to have access to support, love and shelter. It is my mission to fight that battle.

Follow this journey on Brooke’s website.

If you or a loved one is affected by addiction and need help, you can call SAMHSA’s hotline at 1–800–662–4357.

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Lead photo via contributor

Originally published at themighty.com.

Over the years, as I have battled bipolar disorder, I’ve noticed there are some physical symptoms that start to pop up to warn me that my body might be headed for a crash landing. Unfortunately, it took a lot of trial and error before I was able to properly understand what I was experiencing. Below are five physical signs I look out for when I’m worried I may be on the verge of a breakdown:

1. Skin Issues

Just prior to my last breakdown, I experienced a horrifying bout of psoriasis and cystic acne. I saw a dermatologist who wrote me several prescriptions, but no matter how many shampoos or steroids I tried, it would not go away. My acne was so out of control at 33 years old that I had weekly appointments to take care of my drainage problems. My head was on fire and my face hurt like hell.

2. Overactive Allergies

There was also the hoarse voice and allergies. Figuring my symptoms had something to do with the climate in my new home state of California, I made an appointment with an allergist. After she examined me and sent me along with just some Claritin. I went to an endocrinologist, but he was similarly unable to find any hormonal irregularities.

3. Loss of Muscle Mass

As a fitness freak (and aspiring YouTube wellness personality), this one was especially troubling. Despite maintaining my weight, my lean muscle mass had decreased significantly over just a few months. My trainers suggested that it must be from working out too hard.

4. Problems With Sleep and Focus

Along with the above-mentioned physical symptoms, I also noticed accompanying changes in my sleep cycle. Though I was constantly fatigued and had difficulty concentrating during the day at work, my imagination would run rampant at night and I would get lost in creative project after creative project. I didn’t realize that this burst of energy was a sign of bad things to come.

5. Tinnitus.

Around this time, I also began to hear ringing in my ears, but paid it no mind. I was on the up and up and nothing could stop me! That is, until I cracked — hospitalization, restraints, inpatient, outpatient, the whole nine yards.

Looking back, I had been so involved in my search for the perfect specialist that I completely missed the simplest diagnosis — I was totally stressed out. It’s mind-boggling to me that a relatively innocuous problem could cause such catastrophe in a person’s life.

What seemingly could have been so easily avoided by taking a few mental health days will now forever be the central theme of my life. So, I beg you to read the warning signs. Your health is your number one priority. Work can wait. Your life really does depend on it.

Originally published at themighty.com.

I didn’t always think this way, though. I used to be out for money, power, and prestige. As a result, nothing was ever enough. I was always right around the corner from happiness, just two stops away from satisfied. Success, in my mind, was an elusive moment in time that never seemed to arrive. Even today, I don’t think I will ever stop striving for more. But “more” used to mean something very different to me. “More” used to look like a $1 million salary, an impressive job title, designer clothes, all the latest tech, the perfect man, the works. It used to mean “more than you have.” I wanted to be the best; there was simply no place for losers. I was going to win at life.

All went well for quite some time. I attended Barnard College for undergrad and NYU Stern School of Business for my MBA. I found myself working at one of the most prestigious firms on Wall Street. People would have killed to be in my position, and yet…I never felt fulfilled. I always came just short of having a great year. I wanted everything to be perfect, and it wasn’t.

Then one day, the stress got to be too much for me. I descended into my first manic episode and had to be hospitalized. I had cracked; failure appeared to be my only option. Hunter S. Thompson once wrote, “there is no honest way to explain [the edge] because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.” And he’s right — losing my mind to bipolar mania and psychosis meant losing my job, my friends, my sense of security, and most importantly, my sense of self. My identity as a successful 12-year Wall Street veteran was swapped for that of a mental patient relegated to her hospital bed. I had never felt so low. It took me a good two years to beat the psychosis, anxiety, and depression. I still struggle with being completely functional, but most of my days are good ones.

Everything changed after I had my breakdown. I felt like I would never again come close to knowing what success fees like. Though I had not been entirely happy in my previous life, I found myself longing for those days on Wall Street, haunted by thoughts of how good I had had it. I felt as though I was now doomed to lead an ordinary existence — something completely unacceptable to such an extraordinary person as myself. But as I regained my strength, the lights turned back on in my brain. I started to let in the sunshine in and dream again.

During my recovery, I needed to believe that all the pain that I had gone through could not have been in vain. I believed that what I had experienced made me uniquely equipped to help the people I relate to most — the dually diagnosed. The dually diagnosed, or “double winners” as I like to call them, are people with both mental illness and substance use disorder. Their struggle to stay sane is doubly difficult. I feel that building a business around helping this overlooked group of individuals is what I am meant to do.

So ask yourself: What does success mean to you? Are you defining it in a healthy and realistic way, or are you imposing an impossible standard on yourself? For me, success has evolved from dangerous obsession into making a difference — in one person’s life or the lives of many. My goal is now strategic, measured, and achievable. It is no longer a faraway dream, but my living mantra. I am already there. Won’t you come join me?

The Thrive Global Community welcomes voices from many spheres. We publish pieces written by outside contributors with a wide range of opinions, which don’t necessarily reflect our own. Learn more or join us as a community member!

Originally published at www.thriveglobal.com.

Born into an upper-class family in Darien, it seemed like I had it all. My father was an investment banker, and my mother was an accomplished homemaker and philanthropist. I grew up privileged. I excelled in sports and school and went on to become an investment banker myself. I pursued an MBA from New York University in 2010 and worked in institutional sales at BlackRock, the largest asset manager in the world. I lived with my boyfriend in his apartment on Gramercy Park South. We were your stereotypical WASP couple, planning our engagement, one step away from moving into a Tudor house in Westchester County with our Weimaraner, Luke.

Like most couples in Manhattan, we had a few issues that I was desperately trying to sweep under the rug. I had a problem with alcohol and prescription pills, and my anger was out of control. I could be the sweetest girl in the entire world one minute but violent and belligerent — especially when drinking — the next. One day in April of 2011, I woke up. I decided that I had had enough of drinking. I was so tired of being sick and tired that I was going to get sober for good…not for anyone else…but for myself.

So there I was, working my way up the ranks at one of the top institutions on Wall Street, ducking in and out of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and getting on and off the reformer, preparing for a hiking trip to Machu Picchu. Then, just as easily as our family had been accepted into Aspetuck Country Club, I snapped. I went to bed an accomplished financial professional, and I woke up on a mission from God to save the world. High amounts of stress is a common trigger for mania, more commonly referred to as a “nervous breakdown,” and I had certainly had enough. I was having a manic episode and needed to be hospitalized immediately.

I was diagnosed as having bipolar disorder 1, and I was left in the psych ward feeling alone, disillusioned, and devastated. Luckily, I was headed out on a two-week vacation to Peru the day before I cracked, so it wasn’t too hard for me to cover up my hospitalization from work. However, my personal world started to crumble right before my eyes. My boyfriend broke up with me in the psych ward, and I was asked to move out. From that point on, I saw that I had two options, and falling apart wasn’t going to be one of them. I set out to stay sober and to take care of myself as well as possible in order to reduce the stress that had caused my breakdown.

I was weary of my bipolar diagnosis, as were my doctors, but I decided to take the medication as prescribed, no matter how much I hated the way it made me feel. Over the course of the next four years, I went through the 12 steps of AA, made amends for my behavior, sponsored other women, and worked on changing my attitude. I developed a spiritual relationship with a higher power, and I experienced a psychic change, as described by the book of Alcoholics Anonymous.I moved out to Santa Monica to lessen my stress load, and I manifested my new reality: a bleached blonde, social media-obsessed, Jeep Wrangler-driving Cali girl. I did CrossFit four times a week, I hiked the beautiful Santa Monica mountains on the weekends, I practiced Transcendental Meditation, took advantage of the latest health food crazes in LA, and bathed in self-care. I seemed to have successfully conquered bipolar disorder.

Then, my worst nightmare came true. It happened again. I went from working as a vice president in venture capital banking, living on the beach with four years of sobriety, compliant with my medication, physically in the best shape of my life, and a whole host of friends, to being alone in my bedroom at my parents’ house in South Carolina with absolutely nothing to show for myself, except for a German shorthaired pointer that “I had to have” during my latest manic episode.

I was hospitalized. I was held in restraints. I went to an inpatient treatment center in Malibu and to an outpatient treatment center in Beverly Hills. I struggled to find the right medications, and I couldn’t seem to shake the psychosis. This time, recovery was much harder. I had gotten fired from my job; I married a seemingly homeless, meth addict with schizoaffective disorder that I’d met in treatment; I gave away at least $30,000 worth of my belongings. I eventually relapsed; I sold my car, maxed out all my credit cards, lost my apartment; and I even ended up throwing my passport into the Pacific. Life could not have been worse.

One of the hardest battles I had to fight in order to recover was to accept that I was, in fact, sick. I had to concede to my innermost self that I had bipolar disorder and that I was not a reincarnated mermaid princess. My doctor told me that while your mind goes up in flames during mania, it slowly melts and thaws out in depression. I wondered whether I was ever going to feel like myself again. I was determined to beat bipolar disorder, but my delusions, depression, and anxiety seemed to have it out for me.It took time. I slowly managed to crawl out of bed, to fight the exhaustion, and to kick my anxiety right in the gut. I started slowly, by making coffee dates with childhood friends. I kept the conversation on them, and I was on the verge of tears when I returned home. But I forced myself to do it again and again, week after week, until life started to become more manageable.

Bankrupt, financially and emotionally devastated, and divorced, I put the pieces back together day by day until one day I was back — a much more humble, wiser, and more mature version of myself.By working with a team of doctors who helped me to adjust my medication accordingly, going to spiritual therapy sessions, working out in CrossFit, eating healthy, getting sober again, practicing loving kindness with myself, and most importantly, by being open-minded, willing, and honest with myself and with my doctors, I was able to overcome the greatest tragedy of my life and to turn it into my greatest accomplishment.

I have never been a quitter or a loser, and my disability wasn’t going to keep me down. I decided to leave the finance industry, and I enrolled in graduate school at the University of Southern California to get my master’s in social work. I am intent on changing the way that the mental health treatment industry works and plan to use my clinical experience and financial acumen to develop programs to help others recover from a seemingly hopeless state of mind and body, just as I did — but faster. I know it will be an uphill battle, and I may not be the first one to arrive, but I insist on finishing the race. I will make a difference. It is now my mantra, not my dream.

About The Author:

Brooke Hilton is currently a 2018 Master of Social Work candidate at The University of Southern California. She currently interns as a counselor and case manager at Charlotte-Mecklenburg County’s Community Support Services, Shelter Plus Care Program, focusing on the dually diagnosed homeless population. Previously, she worked in the finance industry for twelve years and pursued an MBA from New York University in 2010 and a BA from the University of North Carolina — Asheville in 2003. She has suffered from Bipolar Disorder 1 and Substance Use Disorder for 15+ years. She is sober and takes medication daily to manage her illness. She is an aspiring LCSW and plans to combine her education with her financial acumen to take the dual diagnosis treatment industry by storm. She just began her blogging journey, but has been an avid writer for decades, finding it the best way to cope with mental illness. She wants to share her story to help raise awareness and to help those suffering in silence find hope in her recovery.

Originally published at thisismybrave.org.

When you live your life in a perpetual hypomanic haze, like many of us do, it’s hard to know whether you’re simply feeling a natural high from the productive streak you’ve been on or teetering on the brink of a total mental breakdown. Most members of this volatile breed of person appear to have it all together. Rarely would anyone suspect that they could be at risk of losing it all.

Over the years, as I have battled bipolar disorder, I’ve noticed there are some physical symptoms that start to pop up to warn me that my body might be headed for a crash landing. Unfortunately, it took a lot of trial and error before I was able to properly understand what I was experiencing. Below are five things to look out for if you’re worried you may be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

1. Skin Issues. Just prior to my last breakdown, I experienced a horrifying bout of psoriasis and cystic acne. I saw a dermatologist who wrote me several prescriptions, but no matter how many shampoos or steroids I tried, it would not go away. My acne was so out of control at 33 years old that I had weekly appointments to take care of my drainage problems. My head was on fire and my face hurt like hell.

2. Overactive Allergies. There was also the hoarse voice and allergies. Figuring my symptoms had something to do with the climate in my new home state of California, I made an appointment with an allergist. After she examined me and sent me along with just some Claritin, I went to an endocrinologist, but he was similarly unable to find any hormonal irregularities.

3. Loss of Muscle Mass. As a fitness freak (and aspiring YouTube wellness personality), this one was especially troubling. Despite maintaining my weight, my lean muscle mass had decreased significantly over just a few months. My trainers suggested that it must be from working out too hard. I know, I was in shock too…working out too hard?

4. Problems with Sleep and Focus. Along with the above-mentioned physical symptoms, I also noticed accompanying changes in my sleep cycle. Though I was constantly fatigued and had difficulty concentrating during the day at work, my imagination would run rampant at night and I would get lost in creative project after creative project. I didn’t realize that this burst of energy was a sign of bad things to come.

5. Tinnitus. Around this time, I also began to hear ringing in my ears, but paid it no mind. I was on the up and up and nothing could stop me! That is, until I cracked — hospitalization, restraints, inpatient, outpatient, the whole nine yards.

Looking back, I had been so involved in my search for the perfect specialist that I completely missed the simplest diagnosis — I was totally stressed out. It’s mind-boggling to me that a relatively innocuous problem could cause such catastrophe in a person’s life.

What seemingly could have been so easily avoided by taking a few mental health days will now forever be the central theme of my life. So, I beg you to take a holistic approach to your wellness and find a doctor who can read the warning signs. Your health is your number one priority. Work can wait. Your life really does depend on it.

The Thrive Global Community welcomes voices from many spheres. We publish pieces written by outside contributors with a wide range of opinions, which don’t necessarily reflect our own. Learn more or join us as a community member!

Originally published at www.thriveglobal.com.

My father was an investment banker, and my mother was an accomplished homemaker and philanthropist. I grew up privileged. I excelled in sports and school and went on to become an investment banker myself. I pursued an MBA from New York University in 2010 and worked in institutional sales for the largest asset manager in the world. I lived with my boyfriend in his apartment on Gramercy Park South. It seemed like I had it all.

But like most couples in Manhattan, we had a few issues that I was desperately trying to sweep under the rug. I had a problem with alcohol and prescription pills, and my anger issues were out of control. I could be the sweetest girl in the entire world one minute but violent and belligerent — especially when drinking — the next. One day in April of 2011, I woke up. I decided that I had had enough of drinking. I was so tired of being sick and tired that I was going to get sober for good.

My first nervous breakdown came when I least suspected it.

I made a lot of progress. I was working my way up the ranks at one of the top institutions on Wall Street, ducking in and out of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and getting on and off the reformer, preparing for a hiking trip to Machu Picchu. Then, I snapped; I went to bed an accomplished financial professional, and I woke up in a manic episode on a mission from God to save the world. High amounts of stress is a common trigger for mania, more commonly referred to as a “nervous breakdown,” and I was certainly under a lot of it. I was hospitalized immediately. I was diagnosed as having bipolar disorder 1, and I was left alone in the psych ward feeling alone, disillusioned, and devastated

Luckily, I was headed out on a two-week vacation to Peru the day before I cracked, so it wasn’t too hard for me to cover up my hospitalization from work. However, my personal world started to crumble right before my eyes. My boyfriend broke up with me in the psych ward, and I was asked to move out. From that point on, I saw that I had two options, and falling apart wasn’t an option. I set out to stay sober and to take care of myself as well as possible in order to reduce the stress that had caused my breakdown.

Eventually, I got my life back together and learned to prioritize my health.

I was weary of my bipolar diagnosis, as were my doctors, but I decided to take the medication as prescribed, no matter how much I hated the way it made me feel. Over the course of the next four years, I went through the 12 steps of AA, made amends for my behavior, sponsored other women, and worked on changing my attitude. I developed a spiritual relationship with a higher power, and I experienced a psychic change, as described by the book of Alcoholics Anonymous.

I moved out to Santa Monica to lessen my stress load, and I manifested my new reality: a bleached blonde, social media-obsessed, Jeep Wrangler-driving Cali girl. I did CrossFit four times a week, I hiked the beautiful Santa Monica mountains on the weekends, I practiced Transcendental Meditation, took advantage of the latest health food crazes in LA, and bathed in self-care. I seemed to have successfully conquered bipolar disorder.

Then, my worst nightmare came true. It happened again.

I went from working as a vice president in venture capital banking, living on the beach with four years of sobriety, compliant with my lithium, physically in the best shape of my life, and a whole host of friends, to being alone in my bedroom at my parents’ house in South Carolina with absolutely nothing to show for myself, except for a German shorthaired pointer that “I had to have” during my latest manic episode. I had gained 30 pounds as a result of the medication, and half of my hair had fallen out. I was homeless, hopeless, and didn’t care whether I lived or died.

I couldn’t believe it. I, who had successfully worked on Wall Street for 12 years; I, who had come from a perfect, loving, and supportive family, now lay lifeless in bed. All that I had worked for seemed to have disappeared over the course of a magical, Technicolor week that my doctors referred to as a manic episode. When you’re manic, dreams really do seem to come true. Until they don’t — and you’re left with a lot of questions and very few answers. I looked quite happy from the outside, but inside, my brain was on fire, engulfed in delusion.

This time recovery was much harder and things could not have been worse.

I was hospitalized and held in restraints. I went to both an inpatient treatment center and outpatient treatment center and struggled to find the right medications. This time, recovery was much harder. I had gotten fired from my job; I married a seemingly homeless, schizoaffective, meth addict that I’d met in treatment; I gave away at least $30,000 worth of my belongings. I eventually relapsed; I sold my car, maxed out all my credit cards, lost my apartment; and I even ended up throwing my passport into the Pacific. Life could not have been worse.

One of the hardest battles I had to fight in order to recover was to accept that I was, in fact, sick. I had to concede to my innermost self that I had bipolar disorder and that I was not a reincarnated mermaid princess. My doctor told me that while your mind goes up in flames during mania, it slowly melts and thaws out in depression. I wondered whether I was ever going to feel like myself again. I was determined to beat bipolar disorder, but my delusions, depression, and anxiety seemed to have it out for me.

It took time. I slowly managed to crawl out of bed, to fight the exhaustion, and to kick my anxiety right in the gut. I started slowly, by making coffee dates with childhood friends. I kept the conversation on them, and I was on the verge of tears when I returned home. But I forced myself to do it again and again, week after week, until life started to become more manageable. Bankrupt, financially and emotionally devastated, and divorced, I put the pieces back together day by day until one day I was back — a much more humble, wiser, and more mature version of myself.

The pillar of wellness — and a lot of inner strength — helped me get back on my feet.

By working with a team of doctors who helped me to adjust my medication accordingly, going to spiritual therapy sessions, working out in CrossFit, eating healthy, getting sober again, practicing lovingkindness with myself, and most importantly, by being open-minded, willing, and honest with myself and with my doctors, I was able to overcome the greatest tragedy of my life and to turn it into my greatest accomplishment.

My disability wasn’t going to keep me down, and staples like self-care, nutrition, movement, and radical honesty helped me put my life back together. I decided to leave the finance industry, and I enrolled in graduate school at the University of Southern California to get my master’s in social work. I am intent on changing the way that the mental health treatment industry works and plan to use my clinical experience and financial acumen to develop programs to help others recover from a seemingly hopeless state of mind and body, just as I did — but faster. I know it will be an uphill battle, and I may not be the first one to arrive, but I insist on finishing the race. I will make a difference. It is now my mantra, not my dream.