My name is Maria and I suffer from manic depression, or what is known as bipolar disorder these days. You wouldn’t think it from taking a look at me. I’ve never really spoken or written about my depression, simply because I was scared of what people would think of me. The last time I wrote something of such a deep and personal nature, it ended up on a parody website written by an ex of mine. I’m terrified of being judged in a bad way and having my words twisted.

I never really thought of myself as a happy person. My primary and high school years were some of the darkest years of my life. Not a day went by without someone picking on me or indeed, beating me up. I was a soft target who never stood up for herself. I’d take the beatings and toddle off home, thinking of new excuses to feed to my parents as to why I have a cut lip/bruised arm/skinned knees.

Once Years 11 and 12 rolled around, things remarkably settled down. The school bullies were too busy stressing about their next Specialist Maths assignment to want to grind Twisties in my hair and call me all sorts of unsavoury sounding names.

Life was going really well for me from 1994 through to the end of 1996. I got into university and was on my way to becoming a journalist.

Something went very wrong at the beginning of 1997…

It was January and I was busy helping out at the university radio station. It was to be our first Melbourne wide test transmission and I was excited about the prospect of hosting my own radio show. This had been a dream of mine since I was ten years old. It was in the month of January that my mother suffered both a heart attack and a stroke. Everything around me had come to a screeching halt.

Having survived my first year of university back in 1996 and looking forward to an awesome new year, I was left with the prospect of having to deal with losing my mother. I felt numb. I didn’t know what to do. I spent the majority of my nights in my room, writing letters to myself that would be opened when I turned 25. 25 was my cutoff age for everything in my life. I was certain that I wasn’t going to make it past that age to begin with.

1997 was also the year I met my first true love. Or so I thought. His name was Rowan. He was everything I ever wanted in a partner. A creative, funny, geeky musicaholic who spent quite a few afternoons with me in the radio studio being a crazy co-host. I loved how we used to talk about spline bending, s0da and his VJ work at rave parties. Rowan kept me afloat emotionally even though I was going through some rough times.

1997 was the year I turned 21. No party for me. The good news was that Mum had survived the stroke and heart attack. Her mobility wasn’t that crash hot. That brought me down. What crushed me to a pulp though was breaking up with Rowan on my 21st birthday. It was the last time I ever saw him again. We hosted our last radio show together and that was that.

The days that followed the breakup, I felt as I was living my life through a continuous camera shot. Something very reminiscent of Massive Attack’s amazing filmclip for “Unfinished Sympathy”. I spent three weeks riding an emotional rollercoaster. I had no energy to attend university, spend time with friends or even communicate with my family.

This was the beginning of having the wind knocked out of my sails repeatedly for the next ten years.

I somehow found my feet again a few months later. I spent the next three years concentrating on my uni course, radio show and various other projects. Mum was getting better day by day

The black dog bit hard again in 2000 when my father was diagnosed with cancer. Having got out of one messy piece of emotional contortionism, I found myself not being able to control my moods. I lost a lot of friends that year. I got into a couple of stupid relationships and my ex had decided to make matters worse by creating a parody blog about my life as a “loser that looked after her cancer-ridden dad and disabled mum”.

I attempted suicide twice in 2000. I was too frightened to speak to anyone about my problems. I didn’t want to be judged. I was constantly being judged because of my lazy eye. Why talk to a GP or counsellor?

I was so stupid back then.

From 2001 through to 2004, my mindset remained unchanged. I didn’t want to burden anyone with my problems. My radio show kept me going during that time. Putting on silly voices and playing music that I adored stopped me from thinking about how shitty my life was.

2004 was the year I seeked proper medical help. It was a dark year. Yet another relationship/friendship had gone bust. The Zoloft kept me from wanting to slash my wrists. Whenever I felt really low, I would take my camera out and take pictures. My days were long. I was unemployed. I couldn’t handle going back to a job in information technology.

Things picked up in 2005 when I got a job as a phonedrone. Everything was on track. I was still on medication. I felt normal again. The next two years saw me on and off meds, cycling all over the place moodwise, loving and loathing my job and 2007 was the best damn year of my life since 1988.

Today is Blue Day 2008 and it’s been two months since my father passed away. When Dad died, I didn’t feel a thing. I didn’t cry at the funeral. I still don’t feel anything. I’m still at the same job, I’m still struggling with things at home but I would NEVER admit that out loud to ANYONE. I feel as if I have returned to high school everytime I wander into work, minus the punchups.

If you asked me how I am, I always reply with either “I’m alive, I suppose that’s a plus” or “I’m here. Not sure for how long but this is as good as it gets”. I’m the friendless lazy-eyed chick you’ll see at the bar, downing a vodka and raspberry, thinking about how nice it would be to talk to someone. I’ve got low self esteem. My vocabulary is shot to pieces as a result of severe burnout from my uni days. I am blue but I get by. Judge me, unfollow me, do your worst.

This is me, emotionally stripped bare on the Internet. I still wonder about Rowan. I never did become a proper journalist for some huge overpriced publication and my job seems to save lives. One out of three isn’t too bad.