Making Amends.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about culpability. In recent years, I’ve become very open about my personal struggles with mental health disorders (specifically bipolar disorder, anxiety, and ADHD), but mostly with regards to how I’ve coped with personal trauma. I’ve never really talked about what I’ve done to the people around me — I’ve never really talked about the ugly side of things, and if I’m going to be open and honest about mental health issues, then I’ve got to be open and honest about all of it.

It’s time for me to talk about Tucson.

After I graduated high school in 2013, I moved to Tucson to attend the University of Arizona, and in my first couple of months there, I made a lot of friends very quickly while also reconnecting with some old ones (my roommates being a childhood friend, a high school friend, and another friend of his with whom I got along with very well). I’d been worried about feeling isolated after moving away from home, so it was amazing to have a group of friends that I could consistently hang out with. I felt included. I felt cool.

At the same time, though, I started working with a new doctor to readjust my meds because the ones I had been on at the time were outrageously expensive. As a result, my mood felt like it was in constant fluctuation. I would go one day thinking that I was Little Miss Popular to feeling convinced that everyone absolutely hated me the next. It was terrible. I remember one night specifically, I woke up from a nap to see on Facebook that all of my friends were at a party without me. Now, logically, it made sense that my roommate had seen I was sleeping and didn’t want to disturb me, so he went to the party on his own. But in my head — which a medical mess by this point — I became convinced that everyone was actually just hanging out with me because they felt bad for me, and they were tired of keeping up the charade. I called my mom, crying, not knowing what to do, and though she comforted me, I remained sure that nobody really liked me, and I let that dictate my behavior from then on.

My behavior became erratic as I became more unstable, and I projected a lot on my friends. I made my emotional well-being their responsibility. On one occasion, while an abusive ex had been trying to drag me back in, I even slept with one of my close friends because I was so desperate to feel loved again, only to find out the very hard way that he didn’t really feel anything for me. I started leaning more heavily on everyone else, convinced that he had done this as an intentional betrayal, instead of just a shitty mistake at a college party. I would call him, text him, crying and needy because I couldn’t keep myself together. My other friends understandably became sick of my constant bitching and blaming — and the fact was, as much as I wanted them to magically fix me, there was nothing they could have done. There was nothing they needed to do or should have done. They weren’t responsible for me, and it wasn’t fair for me to treat them as such. I had become a toxic presence in their lives. So, when three of my closest friends finally severed contact with me, I couldn’t really blame them. But I did — and I was so in the wrong. I even slapped one of them across the face because I was ridiculously falling apart and thought that would somehow help me feel better. It didn’t, and I’m still horrifically sorry that I laid a finger on him to this day.

What was arguably worse, though, was what I did that night. The entire way home, I texted another one of these three friends (the one I had become closest with) that I was going to kill myself, and that it was her fault. I’ll never forgive myself for that. I don’t think I’ll ever deserve forgiveness for that. I did end up attempting suicide that night, and while I ultimately ended up okay, I left some serious scars on all my friendships, not just with those three. I left Tucson for the rest of the semester, but came back for the rest of the school year the next January, only to faced with the ensuing drama from the fallout. And as much as I’d like to say I kept my head above it, there were quite a few instances where the pot got stirred and I was the one stirring it.

All I can really say three years later is that I’m sorry. I’m sorry to Sami, Adam, Hanna, Eric, Gaelen, Hannah, Jake, Lane, Josh, Kyle, and anyone else who got caught in the crossfire. I know that most of you will never read this. I know that nothing I can say will ever make up for what I did to you all. But it seems wrong to let that silence sit as if I wasn’t responsible for creating the rift where it exists in the first place. I’m sorry for all the wrong I did and the things I said, and I’m most sorry for playing the victim for so long. I don’t expect forgiveness, but to commit a lie of omission with this would be to lie to myself about my resolve to be open with my mental health issues.

I write this to make amends, but also for anyone else with mental health issues who feels like a victim no matter what they do. We are not always the victim. No, we did not ask to have these conditions, but neither did anyone around us, and we don’t get to use said conditions as an excuse to treat them terribly. When it comes to mental health issues, the most important lesson you can learn is that they are an explanation, but never an excuse.

I admit to all this not because I’m proud, but because it needs to be said. In the end, I’m done making excuses where I need to be making amends. I obviously can’t claim I’m perfect (I can’t even claim I’m good at this yet), but it’s a step, and one on a path on which I hope to continue.