Dealing with manic depression
	by Victoria Curran

Lori Rodobolski thanks God every day that she has a lifetime ahead of her. The 20-year-old high school grad from Brantford, Ont., was diagnosed with bipolar manic depression in 1994. After suffering extreme and violent anxiety attacks, she attempted suicide when she was 17. That was the lowest point in her ongoing struggle with the chemical imbalance in her brain that causes chronic unhappiness.

Here is her story:

 From the day I was born I was unhappy. I was shy and I didn’t have a lot of friends, probably because I pushed them away. I didn’t get along with my outgoing sisters; I didn’t understand why I wasn’t like them. I used to beat up on myself because I wasn’t as intelligent as other people; by the time I got home from school, I wouldn’t remember how to do the simplest things. I was miserable.

In Grade 10, I started popping 15 to 20 extra-strength Tylenol a day. I was also taking diet pills �?not because I was fat but because I knew they weren’t good for me. My friends noticed and one of them told my older sister, who told my parents. My dad asked, "What pops into your head when you’re depressed?" When I told him suicidal thoughts, he started to cry. My mom broke down and said we needed to get help.

I was diagnosed as a bipolar manic-depressive. My psychiatrist told me there is no cure for manic depression, only medication to control it. She gave me some samples to try. I was terrified. I did not want to depend on medication or take pills every morning, every lunch hour and so on. I often went into the school bathroom, just looked at the pills and cried and cried. Finally I decided I had to try them.

I had all sorts of side-effects from the medication, which made school difficult, and I had to drop out of Grade 11. I had mild anxiety attacks, lost a lot of weight and most of my hair, which was embarrassing. I slept a lot, and my mom had to feed me.

When I went back to school a year later, my anxiety attacks became severe. I’d start rocking back and forth, and shaking. I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I cursed God and wondered why He was doing this to me. I felt as if the devil was inside me trying to rip me apart and I acted violently. I’d finally had it one night and took more than 200 pills.

All I remember is looking at my hand, which was full of orange pills, and then waking up in intensive care with tubes hooked up to me and my mom sitting beside me. The nurse said I had to be admitted to the mental-health ward. I begged and begged her not to send me there, but she said I was a threat to myself. It wasn’t that bad, and I was there only for a week.

My weight, like my moods, was up and down. After I got out of the hospital I packed it on. But recently, when my doctor prescribed the antidepressant Paxol, everything clicked and I haven’t had suicidal thoughts since I began taking it. I was able to start dieting and working out. I regained control of my life.

When I was depressed, I was afraid of discovering the real me. I’d lived with the depression my whole life: it was me. I would have to learn who I was all over again.

I’m happy with who I am now. I can distinguish between when I’m depressed and when I’m just having a bad day. My concentration and focus are back. I’m full of energy. For those with manic depression, it’ll take time, but as long as you want to get better and you get professional help, you will get back on your feet.

I was lucky to be diagnosed so young. I resent that my childhood was stolen but I would never want to endure the long healing process later in life.