10 Reasons I Wish I Could Be More Open About My Mental Illness

6k
6k
20

 

Living with bipolar disorder type 1, I have to deal with severe mood swings, chronic anxiety and occasional psychotic symptoms. Every few years I’m hospitalized due to my illness. I wish I could be more honest, both at these times and every day, about what’s happening to me. Despite the chronic and serious nature of my disorder, I do spend a lot of time and energy hiding aspects of it from those around me.

Here’s why I wish I could be more open:

1. So people could help me recognize the warning signs.

I’m slowly getting better at recognizing when I need help. When I start getting depressed I become less sociable – I ignore phone calls, I stop going out, I don’t want to see anyone. I can often see these things starting to happen, but I feel like I can’t share them with others until it’s too late.

2. So I would feel less ashamed. 

Some of the people I love don’t know anything about my illness, but most of those who do choose to ignore it. It’s the “unmentionable.” The hospital is “that place you went.” It makes me feel ashamed — like my illness is something I shouldn’t talk about. People feel awkward because they don’t know how to approach the subject, but being more open would help so much.

3. So people could learn more about me.

This is me! Bipolar disorder is part of my life. It’s like a friend who’s with me always, but who no one bothers to talk to or get to know. They’d rather ignore her. Being more open would help me heal – I could relax and just be myself without having to hide such a big part of myself all the time.

4. So people can learn about mental illness and disability.

Not all disability is obvious and visible. It doesn’t need to be a scary or intimidating thing to talk about. No one is a better advocate than someone who’s going through it. The more positive exposure there is to mental illness and disability, the better for everyone.

5. So I could explain why I act strangely sometimes.

Sometimes my illness gets the better of me and I don’t act in a way I like. All those times I’ve withdrawn and been a bad friend isn’t because I don’t care, but because I’ve felt too depressed to even get out of bed. I’ve done some silly things that have made people angry with me, but I’ve never had the opportunity to explain why it happened. I never meant to do those things; I just get so unwell sometimes.

6. So I could be honest about why I don’t work.

“So what do you do?” is the question I fear the most in social situations. Despite trying many times to work and to join in society, I’ve always become extremely unwell and often ended up in hospital. It’s hard for me to accept this is my future and I will continue trying as time goes by. I’m not lazy or afraid of hard work — I just find it so stressful I often relapse. It’s just as frustrating for me.

7. So I would have more to talk about.

Sometimes it feels like my whole life is the bipolar. If people ask me what I’ve been doing and how I am, it’s hard to answer without mentioning my mental illness. “I’ve been sitting at home a lot feeling depressed and anxious…my psychiatrist is working on a new cocktail for me…I’ve been trying to go for walks to combat the weight gain but the anxiety is stopping me from going too far from the house.” If only I could really say what was going on.

8. So I don’t have to pretend it’s “just” depression

Sometimes I provide an explanation by using a “lesser” mental health condition as an excuse. Not lesser as in seriousness, but in the reaction I get. Depression and anxiety are more common in the people I come across, and they seem to be more accepting if I say I’ve been feeling depressed. I do feel like I’m cheating sometimes.

9. So I don’t have to lie on my resume.

Every job I’ve had has ended because I was seriously unwell, so I have a lot of gaps in my work history. I’m not currently looking for paid work, but they often ask for a resume even with volunteer work. I never know how to explain all those gaps. I feel like I can’t tell the truth.

10. Because it shouldn’t be my doctor who knows me best.

We talk about my relationships, my activities, things that have gone well or wrong, my thoughts and emotions. Sometimes we talk about very personal stuff like sex or suicidal thoughts. She gives me medication. Twenty minutes once a month on average we talk, and she knows me better than anyone else. If only I could be this open with the ones I love.

The Mighty is asking the following: Create a list-style story of your choice in regards to disability, disease or illness. It can be lighthearted and funny or more serious — whatever inspires you. Be sure to include at least one intro paragraph for your list. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Share Your Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

 10 Reasons I Wish I Could Be More Open About My Mental Illness
6k
6k
20

RELATED VIDEOS

TOPICS
, Contributor list
JOIN THE CONVERSATION

When Having a Mental Illness Is a Full-Time Job

27
27
0

Growing up, I had plenty of aspirations — and it looked like I would achieve them all. I was going to complete my bachelor of nursing, do an honor’s degree, do post-graduate studies in critical care and eventually move into academia and education.

Now, my only aspiration is to remain well.

Let me tell you a bit about myself: I’m 25. I have a bachelor’s degree in nursing. I’ve worked as a nurse for four years and I’m currently completing an honor’s degree. I write for several blogs and online magazines. I volunteer as a Youth Presenter and Community Presenter for a mental health organization. I also receive a disability pension for my mental illness.

2013 was a big year for me. I landed my dream job in the emergency department, was doing well with my studies and was on track with my career plans. That year, I was also diagnosed with bipolar disorder and my world turned upside down. I was 22.

Bipolar disorder had taken over my entire life. My career was not only put on hold, but it crumbled before my eyes. I was hospitalized three times due to episodes of mania and depression. In a 14-month period, I had spent roughly five months in a psychiatric hospital.

In between my hospitalizations I did return to work, but the work wasn’t good for my mental health. The late nights, early starts and night-shifts either fuelled my mania during times of elevation or were impossible when I was depressed. I was constantly swinging from one mood state to another. Eventually I had to resign from my position because my work couldn’t accommodate my health needs. I worked casually as a nurse, but I didn’t get many shifts. My mental health still suffered. At the start of this year I ran out of money and had no choice but to apply for a disability pension.

When I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder, it was suggested I go on a disability pension. I refused because I didn’t want to be a societal burden (the stigma attached to receiving government payments); I wanted to contribute to my community by working. But managing a mental illness is a full-time job — only you can’t clock-out and don’t get weekends off. It’s around the clock, seven days a week. I can’t hand off my symptoms to someone else after eight hours. My bipolar keeps me up at night or keeps me bed-bound. It can make me psychotic, paranoid and suicidal. Keeping myself well and working hard to avoid the deadly consequences my disease can bring takes a huge amount of my energy and time. Believe me, I would love to be able to work like most people. It would mean there was nothing wrong.

The application process for a disability pension was not easy. It took over 100 days before my paperwork was reviewed. It took many more weeks of degrading meetings and appointments so they could assess my “level of disability” (despite many medical certificates from my psychiatrist, psychologist and general practitioner) until it was approved.

If it weren’t for my parents I would probably be homeless. They provided me with a roof over my head and food (and continue to do so). I’m in financial debt to them because they made my necessary payments when I didn’t have the money. They did a lot of the groundwork for my disability pension because most of the time I was too unwell to deal with it myself. I shudder to think how people without support systems cope. I’m not sure they do.

So what do I do with my time? I keep myself busy by working on my thesis, volunteering and writing for online sources. Most importantly, I keep myself well so I can become independent. I just recently stopped grieving the career I had planned.

Though I’m fortunate receiving government payments will probably only be temporary for me, many others can’t say the same. Relying on government payments is not fun. It’s a hard battle to stay afloat, and I’m sure many would agree they’d rather be making their own money. For me, being on a disability pension reminds me of my mental illness and my lost of potential. Still, I work hard everyday to establish a new future – a future where I won’t be on a disability pension. And I’m grateful to say that future is probably not far off.

Note: Since time of writing, I’ve returned to do weekly/fortnightly casual shifts as a nurse in my emergency department. However, I’m still dependant on my disability pension for financial support.

27
27
0
JOIN THE CONVERSATION

Before My Diagnosis, They Called Me 'B*tchy'

3
3
0

So far this year I’ve gotten married, traveled on my first plane, bought a house, started a new job, adopted my second dog and applied to graduate school. Sounds amazing by most standards. A lot of people looked at me and wondered why I wasn’t happier.

You see, with all the good that happened this year, there was a cloud I couldn’t shake — a struggle within me that was so profound and exhausting, eventually I couldn’t hide it anymore. My behavior took a drastic turn.

I spent most of my time on our couch, avoiding human contact as much as possible. I slept as often as I could, whenever I could. Even the most menial tasks took all my energy to complete. On top of it all, any small trigger sent me through the roof. My poor husband was the target of my rage almost 100 percent of the time. After hours or just minutes of blackout rage, I would then cry myself to sleep and wake up like nothing happened.

Then, after days or weeks of this behavior, I would suddenly get bursts of energy. I would clean the house or go shopping for things I didn’t need, but bought anyway. I couldn’t make decisions and my thoughts came a mile a minute. I had the biggest and best plans ever that needed to be done right then and there, but the next day all motivation would disappear and I was back on the couch. I was back in my regular routine.

It was after these “up” episodes my doctor finally suggested I may have bipolar disorder. My heart stopped. It wasn’t so much the diagnosis. As my sister says, “It’s just a label. It describes what you have but it doesn’t define you.” What stopped me in my tracks were the years of mood swings and erratic behavior that came flooding back from my memory.

Ever since I was a teenager people have called me, “hormonal,” “moody,” “b*tchy,” “Jackal and Hyde,” you name it. I’ve lost friends and I’ve screamed horrible things to my loved ones over things that I can’t even remember. Even with my husband, I’ve screamed at the top of my lungs over a misplaced fork only to beg him to spend time with me an hour later. People grew to think that was just who I was. People saw me as those adjectives because that’s how I’ve always acted.

Screen Shot 2015-12-18 at 3.30.19 PM
Katie and her husband.

What they didn’t understand was how much it broke my heart to hear those things. What they didn’t understand was how often I would regret the things I had said or done. But I didn’t know how to apologize for something I didn’t have any control over. I couldn’t describe what made me upset. I couldn’t describe what I was feeling. There were no words for what was going on inside me. How do you apologize for poor behavior when you don’t know the answer? How do you apologize for poor behavior when you feel like you don’t have any control over your body?

Bipolar II disorder. Some may be upset, some may be sad — and I was too, at first. But deep down, I was also relieved. I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders. All those years of unexplainable behavior made sense. All those moments lost to rage, depression and manic behavior were now explained. I was relieved.

I wish I could point my finger at the mistakes I’ve made in the past, at the hurtful things I’ve said or done, and say, “It was bipolar. It wasn’t my fault!” I wish I could take back the last four years of my relationship with my husband and show him there’s a different me underneath the symptoms of bipolar disorder.

I can’t change the past and in a way, that’s a good thing. I wouldn’t be as strong as I am today. I wouldn’t be with a man who truly loves me unconditionally. I wouldn’t be surrounded by family and friends who truly support my journey. Most importantly, I wouldn’t have learned how important it is to communicate about mental health.

If you’re struggling, please talk to someone. We are not our diagnosis. We are not mental cases. We are people.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

3
3
0
JOIN THE CONVERSATION

Finding ‘Sorority Sisters’ in the Psychiatric Unit

276
276
0

I sat with three other moms on ugly green wedges of modular seating in the lobby of the hospital’s psychiatric services building. It was a Tuesday evening and we were waiting for our daughters to finish their first session of group cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) for kids with bipolar disorder. At first, we wrapped ourselves in cocoons of awkward silence. Our eyes bounced from our phones to the clock on the wall or – whenever it dinged, rolled back its heavy doors with a groan and deposited someone into the shadowy room — the elevator.

I glanced at the pretty Asian woman sitting next to me. I remembered her kind smile when we’d all dropped off our girls – who ranged in age from 11 (Sadie, my daughter) to 15 – in the stuffy, windowless conference room on the third floor.

“Does your daughter have bipolar disorder, too?” I asked, tentatively, feeling like an idiot as soon as I did. Duh. Why else would she be here?

She nodded. In a soft voice she told me that Lily, 15, had only recently been diagnosed. But she’d had problems since she was 12 and had been hospitalized four times. Thanks to lithium, Lily was doing better, although the drug made her lethargic and slow. Her father also had bipolar disorder.

“He passed away a few years ago,” Lily’s mother whispered. Tilting her head back, she pantomimed raising a bottle to her lips. “He drank a lot,” she said, lowering her arm. “He didn’t know he was bipolar.”

The matter-of-fact way she delivered this news hit me like the jolt of plunging into an icy lake. I was reminded, once again, just how deadly this illness can be. And how lucky we are that, in spite of her struggles, Sadie isn’t much sicker and is getting the help she needs. Lily’s mom asked how old Sadie was when she was diagnosed. Her eyes widened when I said 6. The woman sitting across from us leaned forward, listening intently to our conversation.

“How old was your daughter when you knew something was wrong?” I asked her.

“Right away,” she replied, grimacing. “Amy cried all the time when she was a baby.”

Her husband’s denial about their daughter’s condition led them to divorce. She sighed and folded her arms tighter across her chest. “Amy just goes into a really dark tunnel sometimes” she said, shaking her head.

The rest of us nodded. We all knew that tunnel. We knew how the strain of raising a child with a mental illness could chip away at even the most solid marriages. We knew what it was like to watch our girls flounder in school and lose friends. We’d felt the sting of skepticism from our own friends, relatives and others when we uttered the words “pediatric bipolar disorder.” We knew about clinging to the hope that each new medication would be the one that would prevent our child from ever crawling back into that tunnel.

The only mother who hadn’t yet spoken, a blonde woman with tired eyes, rose from her seat. She shared that her girl, Kylie, who was 12, had originally been diagnosed with ADHD. “I sobbed when the doctor told me she had bipolar disorder,” she said.

The illness had ravaged her sister’s life. More nods. We’d all seen adult family members sidelined by bipolar disorder and robbed of their potential. We’d watched them succumb to addiction and push away those who love them with their erratic moods and behavior. And we knew how the lure of suicide, with its promise to end their pain forever, always clouded their futures.

Our formerly subdued group was suddenly chatty as a gathering of sorority sisters — which, in a way, we were. Talking over each other, we swapped stories and compared notes on symptoms and medications. We didn’t slow down until the elevator chimed and one of the older girls from the group swished past us in her long bohemian skirt, signaling the 90-minute therapy session was over. Sadie was the last one to pop out of the elevator.

“How’d it go?” I asked as we headed to the parking lot, though the grin on her face answered my question.

“Really good!” she said. “But it went by so fast.”

I knew how she felt. I was pretty sure spending time with other girls who had bipolar disorder would help her.

I hadn’t anticipated how therapeutic it would be for me to hang out in the lobby with their moms.

The names in this story have been changed to protect identities. 

Odonnellanddaughter
Dorothy and her daughter.

This essay was originally published on Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers

 

276
276
0
JOIN THE CONVERSATION

To Brandon Marshall, Who Helped Me Face My Mental Illness

483
483
0

Dear Brandon,

Even though you have one of the most “alpha-male” careers as an extremely accomplished NFL wide-receiver for the New York Jets, you have inspired a little girl to put back together the pieces of her life.

A little over a year ago, my older brother Wes told me about you and about your story. I remember distinctly we were at my younger brother’s away football game in Greensboro, North Carolina. I was in the midst of a manic episode, but it was on the decline.

I had just withdrawn for the third time from my semester at Clemson University where I should have been a junior.

“Have you ever heard of Brandon Marshall?” He asked me. I told him I had heard your name but I didn’t know anything about you. He told me about how you wore lime-green cleats during a game for mental health awareness. He told me about how you were fined by the NFL for the cleats and that you matched the fine to donate to mental health organizations.

This fine is nothing compared to the conversation started and awareness raised,” you wrote on Twitter afterwards.

In almost an instant, you had become my hero.

I went home and looked up more about your story. That you have borderline personality disorder (BPD) and went through the difficult but necessary journey of piecing back together your life and making sense of it all at McLean Hospital.

Then, you opened up about your BPD and told the world at a press conference.

 

Even though we’re so different, we are so the same. I saw myself in your story. I thought wow, this man really understands me and what I’ve been through. Which is strange, because we’ve never met. Also the fact that you’re a pro-athlete and I’m a 5’3 college student. We look different, but I understand you. I’ve lashed out. I’ve felt like I didn’t belong. I’ve felt rejected. I’ve been unsupported. I’ve been misunderstood.

I also have the same desires you did to inform people of what I’ve been through. To give people an opportunity to understand. To not hide. To use our story. Your wife Michi said as she was getting wrongfully arrested, “Someone is going to learn from our story.

She was right.

Not just someone, many someones. And I am one of them.

I cannot thank you enough for putting the whole team of mental illness on your back. Thank you for your honesty and vulnerability in a career that seems to inspire the opposite.

Thank you for unknowingly welcoming so many out of their shadows and into the light.

Thank you for messaging me back today and telling me how you were so proud of me. I nearly fell over in my class and that’s not an exaggeration. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face or the joyful tears from welling in my eyes as I flashed back to that moment this time last year when I first heard your name.

Thank you for all that you’ve done for this community and for the world. Can’t wait to paint the world lime green together.

Sincerely,

The young woman you inspired to break free from the shame and chains of her illness.

p.s. I’ll be keeping the Lego Brandon Marshall figurine that my brother got me on my dresser, always.

To learn more about Brandon Marshall, check out his organization Project 375. Click here to donate to Growing Project 375.

 

Related: NFL Player and Under Armour Are Teaming Up For Mental Health

483
483
0
JOIN THE CONVERSATION

When Reddit Judged Me for Being a Mother With Bipolar Disorder

657
657
5

I’ve have written about my triumphs and hardships with bipolar disorder many times before. I write so others know they’re never alone. In my writings, I would neither judge or condemn someone for choosing to have children or choosing a life without children. Their choices are none of my business, and who am I to judge anyway? Who are any of us to judge another person?

Who indeed.

I’ve never claimed to be the best mother in the world because, well, that would be ridiculous. But I do know I’m a good mom. My daughters are everything to me and I take care of myself to not only be healthiest person I can be, but the strongest mother to my children.

Once, while looking over my personal blog, I was alerted someone had shared one of my posts to Reddit.* It was a blog I had written called “You Can’t Have Kids, You’re Bipolar,” about a comment I’d received — someone thought I should feel guilty for having children because I have bipolar disorder.

I decided to make my way to Reddit to take a peek at what was being said about the piece; surely people would see my point, right? As my eyes scanned her post, my stomach churned.

There were over 80 comments calling me everything from “psychopath,” “unstable,” “selfish” and “unfit.” Even a disgusting comment about how I should’ve been forced to undergo sterilization was upvoted and replied to with like-minded ignorance.

I was blown away. I reached out to my community of mental health advocates, reposting the original article I had written with all of the Reddit comments copied and pasted at the end to highlight the stigma and ignorance.

Their support was amazing, and I’m so thankful for the community of mental health advocates in my life. The people who know what it’s like, or take the time to ask what it’s like, are the ones who would never judge another person. These are the people who are changing the world, one small act of kindness at a time.

And since stumbling on that Reddit post, I’ve come to a few conclusions of my own:

It’s sad people in this world honestly believe hate is the way to treat someone with an illness. I’m sad some people would choose to remain ignorant.

And even after reading and rereading the comments by people who’ve never met my lovely children or me, yet still felt justified in their judgment, I couldn’t help but feel bad for them. I asked myself, if given the opportunity to speak to those faceless strangers, what would I say?

While everyone is entitled to their beliefs and opinions, you don’t know me or my children. Spreading ignorance is harmful, and you have absolutely no right to judge someone you’ve never met. People who are diagnosed with an illness might read those words and lose hope.

I wrote that piece to let other parents know being diagnosed with a mental illness doesn’t mean you can’t be an amazing, loving parent. Please stop adding to the stigma we fight every single day.

It’s exhausting, and it’s taking time away from my beautiful children.

*Editor’s note: The post has since been removed.

Follow this journey on The Lithium Chronicles.

657
657
5
JOIN THE CONVERSATION

Real People. Real Stories.

8,000
CONTRIBUTORS
150 Million
READERS

We face disability, disease and mental illness together.