Doctors told Kate Speer31, she'd spend the rest of her life in a psych ward. She is proving them wrong.
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In an interview with Health, Speer shared her story. I was born and raised in Norwich, Vermont, the middle of three girls, and the daughter of two doctors. I grew up incredibly blessed and privileged.
I was raised by a family who loved and supported me unconditionally. At age 7 we discovered that I had a learning disability and a processing disorder, and I was placed in special education.
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I had a high IQ, but focusing and staying on track were hard for me. I played a lot of sports to run off my energy. The only place I felt accepted and okay was when I was playing sports.
- Посреди рабочего дня Ричарда и Арчи-оставили.
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In high school, my athleticism became the focal point of my identity. My freshman year I made both the varsity hockey and lacrosse teams. I was thriving on the ice what's worse ms or diabetes the field, but struggling more and more in the classroom.
By junior year I was crying all the time, and my parents sought help. This is real.
And fortunately my family supported me in that. My grandmother had grown up with bipolar disorderand suffered so much stigma—so I decided I was going to be the family member who fought to change the stigma, by owning what I was going through.
By the time I got to college though, the symptoms had changed. Instead of just crying, I also had moments of extreme anger, loudness, and hyper-creativity.
At that point, my diagnosis shifted to a mood disorder. Still determined to not be limited by my illness, I threw myself into school. I worked incredibly hard, but no amount of hustle or studying took the symptoms away.
My mood swings grew worse. My outbursts became more severe.
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What's worse ms or diabetes a cukorbetegség kialakulásának okai sleeping for weeks at a time, and by the end of that year, after a sleepless week and a mile run in the middle of the night, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.
That diagnosis marked the beginning of a very dark time in my life, and also the beginning of what is often called the medication treadmill.
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My doctors, who wanted to help me stay enrolled at Middlebury college, threw medication after medication into my treatment regimen to manage my symptoms. But even with friends who supported me and professors who accepted my transparency and need for accommodation, no medication seemed to help.
They only seemed to make me physically sicker.
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Halfway through sophomore year, I was on eight different drugs. I was a shell of the human and athlete I once was.
I didn't recognize myself. Vomiting, migraines, incontinence—I could barely go for a run, or walk in a straight line. Losing not only access to a stable mind but also a reliable body made me feel hopeless.
I was planning to jump off a bridge. But once I realized nobody could use my organs if I died that way, I drove myself to my therapist's office.
I was then placed in a psychiatric ward. So defeated by my illness, and wanting to at least get back the physicality of my athleticism, I opted into electric shock therapy instead of changing my medication. The treatment had been really effective for my grandmother, and I was hopeful it would have the same effect on me.
Before I went in for the procedure, I wrote myself a note on a Post-It. Your best friend is RD, and your therapist knows everything. Back at school, I couldn't remember my friends or my classes.
So I had to entirely recreate myself and my academic focus. Instead of upper-level economic classes, which involved information I no longer knew, I started taking art classes. Photography quickly became a passion—as an art form, and also as a way to help me retain memories. I didn't want to lose another memory ever again.
I tried to capture my entire life in images.