Sunrise after the Storm

By Mariana Nicole Karalis

Lost and confused, Mariana found herself in a place of despair, shocked by a prognosis that offered no hope for recovery. Her doctor’s passionate explanation of bipolar disorder and the challenges it posed seemed to close the door to the possibility of a normal life.

However, in her struggle, Mariana discovered a beacon of hope, Jesus. Her spiritual awakening as a born-again Christian transformed her perspective and gave her the strength to go on a journey towards recovery.

This is more than just a memoir; it’s a testament to the power of faith and the human spirit. Throughout the story, Mariana shares Scriptures and prayers that have been instrumental in her healing process, offering readers a source of inspiration, faith, and hope.

A must-read for anyone facing similar struggles or for those seeking to understand the complex interplay between mental health and spirituality. It serves as a reminder that even in our darkest moments, there is always a sunrise after the storm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mariana Nicole Karalis
• Release date: Mar 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215802892

Mariana Nicole Karalis

Mariana Nicole Karalis is a Christian Indie Author. She has a mission to inspire and bless others. The purpose of her work is to give hope.

Book preview

January 16, 2006

I awake during the long and lonely night, loud winds slapping against my window. Unable to sleep, reminiscing about the sunlight. I kept asking myself, when will the sun rise? It is dark. Feeling hopeless and despair, I thought about storms in nature. How they relate to life. In this life, there are storms, hurricanes, long winters, and days when the sun never shines through darkened clouds. Many storms have a beginning, a middle, and an end. When a storm first hits, it hits hard, leaving people shocked, dumbfounded, and unable to think things through, causing them to be stuck in a trauma survival mode. After the first phase, there is the pain of suffering. From the constant struggle of trying to get your life together. Sometimes this pain and suffering can last for a long time, leaving a person wondering and waiting for their storm clouds to lift. If you stick it out, the storms in your life will eventually come to an end. The storms ride out their course, as this is true in real-life issues and traumas. After the ending of a storm, a new beginning begins. Before sunrise, it is always the darkest. Just as long winters seem bleak in life, so think of this as another season. When everything gets worse, there is a breaking point in life, and then everything gets better. You hit rock bottom, and the only direction you can go is up out of the pit because there is nowhere else to go. As the sun rises, darkness has to flee.

Chapter 1

Where it All Began

If you must, just force yourself to fight with all of your might, to ignite change in your life, to be free, to rise above ill-fated destiny.

Sirens and gunshots echos in the distance. I dodged bullets under my living room table. An exciting year, attending college at a top fashion design school in Los Angeles, California. Back and forth and back, the never-ending piles of bills, outfits to make, the hustle and bustle of living downtown. My never-ending prayers to God kept me going for an entire year. Flashbacks from childhood, mom scratching my face, pulling my hair, slaps stung, like a beach wave wiping me out. It still hurts from far away. Mom had a way of piercing my thoughts with her loud screeching voice, as nails scratch down a chalkboard. Vibrating throughout my inner consciousness. Echoing in the distance as a rippling pebble drops into a lake.

New friends, the party life, going after my passion and dreams were becoming true with an internship. The life plan was falling into place.

Several months pass. The green bridesmaid dress stowed away in a dresser. Barefoot in limbo, staring into a palm tree, my living room plant? Wearing Tanya’s clothes? The quiche was good. Where? Barefoot, black shoes in front of a dresser. Why? Time and weeks crossed over into infinity. No sense of gravity to sustain my existence. Looking down at my feet wearing black sneakers, short pink shorts, bridesmaid dress color, the green stings my memory. Perplexed, a nurse comes and wraps her nurturing arm around in a maternal hug. The first words said, Do you know what your name is?

Utterance, pause, my deep revelation, Who am I? I think, and I am? Wait! Mariana is my name! Lopsided, funky, and gazed out, perplexed, and curious; is this, A dorm or hotel? We walked down together, toward the end of a hallway. There we paused, at the right turn. Into a psychiatrist’s office, plopped on the sofa, What in the hell is this place? Obviously, this is not a dorm or a hotel. Why am I here? The doctor explained the diagnosis and prognosis. The death sentence as he throws the red book (DSM 1996) across the room directly at my face, Bipolar 1 and permanently disabled, as he scribbles on his script. Not believing what he said, I questioned, Will I ever be able to recover? Go to work? Go back to school? Politely the psychiatrist repeated the prognosis. No, never. The social worker chimes in, You may need to be committed to a group home. I left the room, and I yelled loudly, bullshit! My dreams are not pipeline dreams!"

The dream of going back to school? Work? How can it be? What did they know? As they administered the discharge papers, they gave instructions for many dosages of medicine. I gathered all of Tanya’s clothes in a trash bag wearing my new Cross Color sneakers. Somehow, miraculously, fit my perfect feet. Finally, given a taxi voucher because of my doctor’s recommendations for not taking the bus because of the so-called stress. Whatever! A cab ride is a great convenience. Tanya referred to me as a sad college friend. Doctors referred to me as the statistic. The hopeless case.

My Discovery

Where were my keys? I went downstairs to the leasing office. Finally, someone answered the door. Inquired for my keys, 201? My rent is past due! I left abruptly.

The clumsy key did not go into the lock. One, two, three, got it! What the, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh God! What is this peace sign on my closet double doors? Very original in design. Who would have thought of a peace sign with pink flowers? Cute for a t-shirt logo. Bookshelf tipped over upside down. Books are strewn across as collage images mangled on poster board. Furniture off the floor. Clothes were on the floor. As hanging clothes from a clothesline fall to the ground, just like on a windy day. Home sweet home, or hell?

Intense anxiety began after being gone for two weeks. Triggered suicidal idealizations. Frantically, I knocked on Pam’s door. Can you please help? What happened? This is freaky. Pam referred to the maintenance person. Someone to talk to. She came along aside downstairs to my apartment.

Slowly, piece by piece, everything pulled back in order. After our long pause of silence.... a burst of laughter, Nice peace sign! as Pam laughed like a hippie from the ’70s. The flowers of hope, energy illuminating, peaceful considering how trashed everything was.

Then there was a knock on my door. I noticed my palm tree plant was missing. Order to the once category five hurricane Mariana disaster area finally established. Whimpered a hello through the peephole, Oh, it’s you. I see you have your paint bucket with a roller brush. He came in. Ashamed of my artistic expression, he painted with long, even strokes.

As he rolled away, Mariana, we found you outside wearing a green dress and holding a pot. You did not know who you were. Talking really fast and loud, it looked like you were high off of something. The plant was some type of small tree. You were sprinkling dirt everywhere. In your apartment, everybody heard swearing. Then I asked you if you were okay. You said to call 911. You did not know what was happening to you. My ending conversation was, Thank you for your help. The paint job is now accomplished. Pam leaves, now all alone in my studio apartment.

Reality sank in! Exhausted, sleeping half of my days away. Not brushing my teeth. No showers. The party is now over! The worse hangover ever! Will it ever go away?

Upset and needing to call my boss, Dan said, It is okay to come back when you get better. Emotional after my first words spoken, Nervous breakdown, I hung up the phone with no goodbyes. The fashion industry is hugely fast-paced. Burnout happens in my case with a nervous/psychotic breakdown. Dan’s kindness, compassion, and appreciation of my talent really blessed me with knowing my boss was a wonderful person. There are actually good bosses out there, a rare find.

Blessed by good neighbors who pitched in with taking care of necessities. The sense of community is close-knit. I was loved and safe. My good landlord did not charge any late fees for rent. Understood the situation, he gave a two-week grace period.

The typical day, sleep, sleep, and more sleep. Castaway in my cave. Dwindled down into the black hole. The never-ending fall. Faster and deeper suspended into outer space. How long will this hell last? I can not endure any longer.

I stood up, and I cleaned my apartment. Folded my futon. The social worker came in. Fearful of being committed, I performed an Oscar performance. The conversation ended. Advice, go to some random place. Once there, it was Skid Row.

Long line with a wait of one hour. The glaring sun stings my cheek. Hopefully, everything will pass. Approaching the front of the line, my desire for transcendence inspired my new direction toward Santa Monica beach. Dreading at the thought of going back home. Wasn’t it the reason I moved out west to get away from it all? In my soberness, realities sank in knowing I can no longer function or survive in a big city. My only option is to call Dad to get help for living expenses. I can no longer pay rent. No bills and a forty thousand hospital stay. A close call to bankruptcy.

Frantically stressed out about next month’s rent. Hopefully, Dad can cover for several months. Until I get better, to go back to work.

I refused to go by the doctor’s advice to not work. I cannot stop living my life after what happened. My career in fashion is my passion. Working should help with this catatonic depression. I need to get out of the apartment by being around fabric swatches and my co-workers. Determined to go back to work. My phone call had to be made proposing my plan to Dad.

Called Dad. He said, Mariana, I can not help you. The best bet is for you to come home. Mary you should have never moved out to Los Angeles. You could have worked on Capitol Hill with Congressman Ike Skelton with an internship, or a really well-paid government job. You moved out there. Los Angeles caused your illness. Fashion was a big mistake. Are you planning to go back to work at the same design studio? In tears, Dad, I am not working at the restaurant. I do not want to move home ever again! My volcano erupts. "Why did anybody not come out here to make sure I was okay?

You own a four-star restaurant you could have taken a week off. And helped with groceries. You should have talked to my doctors about getting situated. Why did I have to rely on my neighbors for help? Where was my family? "

Are you ashamed? I have this dreadful disease. Then Dad expressed his views of my situation, Mariana, you can not make it out there on your own. I will not support you. Come back home. I will find you a job you can do to earn extra money, a new place with rent paid, and your own car. Do you agree with this proposal? Thought about it, now is the time to hang up. Dad, I can not take your proposal. Santa Monica beach is not so bad to live being homeless. Weather is always nice, the safest place to live. Send money, so I can get a sleeping bag and a tent. Thanks! Goodbye! I can not escape this reality. Afterward, those thoughts emerged.

I was contemplating and reflecting on the situation, a sobering fact, not being able to function. Survival in a big city, how? Is it realistic considering my capacities? I tried to clean, not being able to take showers for four days. Yes, I know disgusting. My greasy hairballs build up. Not my fault. My neurotransmitters are not functioning. Blame it on the depression. The cooking was takeout. One phone call. A knock on the door. Dinner is served. I took out the trash with the pull, lift, carry, and walk. At least I could accomplish it. A miracle.

My weight gain was horrific. In three months, sixty pounds. As it mortified me from looking in the mirror, fashion shows were my side gigs for small companies and department stores. Whenever walking down the street, constant friendly glares would approach my presence. Compliments made by friends, "Mary, you can be a leading actress