If I divulge the illness I battle with every day to you, please realize this: I either feel it is very necessary, or I trust you. That’s all, folks.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Telling someone of my illness is like taking a chance on possibly changing an aspect of my life with one little confession. For instance, if you’re a friend I confide in, there’s a chance you won’t be accepting and might distance yourself, therefore resulting in a loss of friendship I cherished enough to tell of my deepest secret. Another example would be telling a manager at work, with the possibility of losing my job. Even though I am protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act, there are always loopholes, and I realize this as I tell of my struggle to be the best possible version of myself to achieve my goals at work.
If I am brave enough to open up and tell you this information and brave enough to confide in you about this internal struggle that I keep to myself in order to avoid judgement and backlash, here are a few things I’d like you to do.
2. Don’t say things like “Really? I never would have guessed!” because even if you don’t mean to, you’re basically saying I don’t come off as the “crazy kind of bipolar” that you have always been told to believe.
3. Do look up my diagnosis. If you are not aware of the definition, symptoms, behaviors, etc. of my illness, do us both a favor and do some research.
4. Do give me the impression that you’re accepting without exactly saying “I accept you.”
5. Do tell me you’ll be here if I need you and also ask of ways you could help should I need it.
6. It’s OK to ask me questions — hell, all I ever want to do is talk about my self-destructive disorder because I usually can’t.
7. Lastly, and most importantly, do not, I repeat, do not treat me any differently than you normally would! There is nothing more discouraging and mentally destructive than to think a person you’ve confided in thinks of you in a different way. At that point, I’ll worry myself sick that you don’t like me. I’ll tell myself that your whispers are about me and how “crazy” I am. These things will spark a spiral of symptoms, sending me deep into the abyss of a relapse that will take so much time and effort to pull myself back from.
At the end of the day, I am still the same person I was before I told you. I’m not magically someone different just by two little words… bipolar and disorder.
Support me, try to understand me, and love me no less than you did the two seconds before I told you who the real me is.
The Mighty is asking the following: What is a part of your or a loved one’s disease, disability or mental illness that no one is aware of? Why is it time to start talking about it?Check out ourSubmit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.
Today I took the United States History exam. I was prepared for it and ready to succeed. I practiced each part of the exam including multiple choice, thematic essay, documents and document-based questions (DBQ).
I got to the multiple choice section, knowing most of the answers, and feeling confident and happy with how the test was made. The thematic essay was fair, too.
Then got to the documents section, specifically doc number five. It was about the Korean War and compared the two sides as a “bipolar struggle,” even giving the definition of “bipolar.”
But “bipolar” isn’t a adjective.
It’s a mental illness that affects 2.5 percent of teens at one point in their lifetime. It’s a disorder that cripples my life daily and creates feelings I can’t explain. It’s not how you describe a struggle between two sides in a war.
Once I read the word, I froze — angered , offended and sickened. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I drew a circle around it and wrote, “bipolar is not a adjective.” I know an outside source produces the documents, but you decide the documents that go into the exam. You easily could have picked another document without that word.
My disorder is not an adjective, and I hope you learn that too. I am ashamed of you for not only myself but the whole mental health community. I hope you realize your actions have hurt me and will refrain from using mental illness as slang on future exams.
I have debated long and hard about sharing this, but in the end my passion for increasing awareness on behalf of my children won out.
I have a child with serious mental illness.
He sees a psychiatrist, takes psych meds and we have discussed inpatient treatment. I believe it’s just a matter of time before that happens.
He is also a leukemia survivor and has other complex medical needs. His mental health concerns are nearly as challenging as his physical health problems.
Yes, for us, his mental health needs are nearly as challenging as cancer. Let that sink in.
We are not alone. Other families face serious mental health issues in their children. We’re a quiet bunch because there is still so much stigma attached to mental illness and medicating kids. Many people believe it’s just a discipline or behavior problem which should be solved with whatever happens to be their favorite method of punishment.
I often write about my sons’ Down syndrome, or their medical needs, but today I am stepping out to say that my son lives with severe bipolar disorder. I say it so others know they aren’t alone. I say it because I cannot abide the stigma any longer.
The Mighty is asking the following: Tell us about the first time you reached out to someone about your mental illness. Whether it was a friend or a professional, we want to hear about why you opened up, how it went, and why you’re glad (or maybe not glad) you did it. Check out ourSubmit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.
“We’ll all float on OK.” — “Float On” by Modest Mouse
One memorable night of my first admission in a psychiatric ward, I sat up with another patient, Joey* and gave him my CD to listen to. Joey had come back to the ward from day release, drunk and in a dark place, refusing to go to his room, ranting about ending his own life. The night nurses told me not to bother, but I sat with him in the corridor for a while. Joey had been living in the ward for three months. Homeless, he didn’t have anywhere else to go. It was his last night there before he was being driven to a half-way house. Earlier in the day, I’d helped him pack and discovered his “The Cure” t-shirt and pulled it on over my black hoodie. He’d reminisced to me about his life on the street and with prostitution. A couple of days earlier, he’d come back from the supermarket with a box of black hair dye, and I’d helped cut and dye his hair. Suddenly, I’d had other patients lining up for a hair wash at my makeshift salon.
The other patients are what I remember most about my admissions. Their stories, their colorful personalities, their kindness and warmth. I can’t remember all their names or faces, but we were comrades in the hospital, keeping each other company in the early hours of the morning when the mania does not allow you to sleep, or during the boredom of long afternoons after visiting hours were over. We’ve spent Christmas together, and I’ve shared with them some of my deepest fears.
Eight years have passed since that night in the ward with Joey. I still pray for him sometimes, and hope he found his way out of that dark place. In those early days of my first admission, we were asked in a group counseling session to write down the positives in our experience of being diagnosed with a mental health condition. There were groans at such a trite, patronizing exercise, but in my manic state I blitzed it and came up with a full list. After some revision, I use that list to this day. I continue to remind myself that in a funny way, having bipolar disorder has been one of the best experiences of my life.
Yeah, there are shit days. It’s hard. I’ve had times where I haven’t wanted to be alive, a lot of days it’s hard to convince myself to do anything worthwhile, I’ve suffered post-traumatic stress from the screwed up delusions my chemically imbalanced brain keeps spewing out. I feel resentment at the seemingly endless pile of medication I have to keep track of. I feel I have burdened my family with my illness, and I am racked with guilt.
In spite of this, or perhaps because of it all, my experiences and the sheer challenge of a journey through my own head, has enriched my life. As well as the people I have been fortunate enough to get to know on the wards, I have been forced to get to know myself. It has brought me closer to my family, forcing me to open up about my drug use early on. It’s pulled me and my husband closer as we cling together through the terror of it all. It forced me seek proper medical attention, and now I have a good medical team of mental health professionals who I trust have my back. It has taught me about health, relationships, myself, people, life.
So, to anyone who has been slapped in the face with a diagnosis, do not suffer from your mental health condition. Allow it to empower you, let it enrich your life. And on those bad days, get out your happy song and trust that we will all float on anyway.
*Name has been changed.
The Mighty is asking the following: What was one moment you received help in an unexpected or unorthodox way related to disability, disease or mental illness? Check out ourSubmit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.
“Music has always been my protection against the world, from a very young age. I feel safe inside of a jam.” — Trey Anastasio, Guitarist and Vocalist for Phish
Like many people, I love Trey. Trey is a hero. I feel like Trey and I could be friends. However, I feel it for a different reason than many. You see, both of us hold something a little strange in common: we are in recovery. He, famously, is in recovery from addiction to painkillers and alcohol; I, much less famously, am in recovery from my mental illness, bipolar 2 disorder. And, like Trey, it is inside music, inside the “jam” that I feel the most safe.
This essay has no purpose other than my reflection on that recovery inside the very interesting world that is the “jam band” community. From what I can find, there have been no academic studies done on mental illness among jam band fans; as well, there isn’t really any supporting evidence for the jam band world being a boon to one’s recovery. So, I’m going to write about my experience and how the jam band community contributes to my recovery, or how I have found peace in and from the jam band world.
First, what does it mean to have bipolar 2 disorder? Bipolar disorder is a mental illness where the ill person experiences two distinct moods. The first is mania, a time that can contain things like high energy, racing thoughts, feelings of invincibility, sleeplessness, hypersexuality, extreme spending, etc. The second is a deep, dark depression that usually leads to suicidal thoughts or ideation. Bipolar 2 disorder is a form of bipolar that does not have moments of pure mania but experiences of hypomania (or, what I like to call,
“not-quite-mania”) and contains much more time stuck in the pits of depression. For the jam band community, Mikey Mirro, the original drummer of Umphrey’s McGee died of bipolar disorder.
Like I imagine it did with Mikey (and from accounts I’ve read, it seems quite likely), death haunts me. The depression I experience with my bipolar causes me to come untethered to life, to relationships. I distance myself from family, from my wife and kids, from my friends. But, since I’ve usually bought a ticket beforehand, I still make it to shows (you can’t waste that money, am I right?). And I still listen to the music. And the music, both live and recorded, have kept me sane more than once.
As someone with bipolar (and my condition “rapid cycles,” meaning I experience more than four major hypomanic or depressive episodes a year), my mind betrays me. In hypomania, I cannot keep my mind on anything for very long. I have ideas upon ideas and move to each with great earnestness. In depression, my mind stays stuck, like a scratched record. I simply ruminate on my pain, and this leads to thoughts of death, which leads to further thoughts of pain and the cycle goes on and on. In both of these instances, music, especially “jam” music, is a saving grace.
In hypomania, my mind races. I have thoughts upon thoughts, and I have to act on each one at that moment. But nothing gets done or happens because each thought is interrupted by another and another and another. In this cycle, I can’t stop. My mind never shuts down. It never focuses. But, I can still get lost in a jam. Recently, a favorite is Phish’s Tweezerfest (a show at Dallas’ Bomb Factory on May 7, 1994). For about the last year I have found myself immersed in the second set of this show. It starts off innocently enough. Then Tweezer erupts as the third song, and we’re off as Trey and the boys move and weave Tweezer around a number of different songs by artists like Aerosmith, the Breeders and Prince. In my racing mind, I can get lost in this. My thoughts do not have to fly by because the jam never gets stale and teases me. Phish never simply settles into a groove and plays, but they keep it moving forward. My manic mind needs that. They surprise by bringing in stuff that should not be there. It works, just like my hypomania. It seems random but makes sense. And it’s beautiful.
The physical community has also been a real benefit in these moments. The social media imprint of the community leads to avenues and places to discover and explore that are further and further out there. The ideas are endless. But the community also helps you stay focused on the task at hand, which is enjoying and living in the jam. When I’m hypomanic, I’m moving to the next thing all the time. The now is not enough. The community brings me back to the now. This has happened at shows multiple times, as I’m running from thing to thing and a head grabs me and just says, “Isn’t this unreal?” or “Can you believe they’re doing this?” And I have to stop, take a moment, listen and usually end up lost in the jam. The community, by sharing life, brings me back to the now.
The community is also there when I am the opposite of hypomanic. When my depression sets in, there is a lot that happens. My anxiety kicks in, and being around people is tough, if not painful. As the depression continues to set in deeper and deeper, my suicidal thoughts grip me and can paralyze me. But the community never lets me rest there. And I can give two such instances.
First, there was an Umphrey’s McGee “hometown” show in South Bend on October 23, 2011. I didn’t feel up to going and offered my friend the tickets. He said he wasn’t going without me because I was a huge UM fan. And this is true as I’ve followed the band since their beginning days in South Bend and Notre Dame. He basically just said I had to go. When we got to the venue, the doors were not open yet and so we got some food, chilled outside and embraced the scene, not a huge scene but a good scene. Positivity, joy, good vibes. People were talking about what they expected, what they hoped for. It was like the prodigal son returning and we were all wondering what (t)he(y) would look like. Umphrey’s didn’t disappoint and played two songs I love for the encore in “Hajimemashite” and “Front Porch.” Did it erase my depression? No. But it gave my mind somewhere to go, an out, for a few hours. It eased the pain.
Similarly, I was at the infamous Phish “rain” show in Chicago; no, not the one they cancelled, but the one on July 21, 2013, the Sunday night show (with the divisive “Second City Harpua”). I wasn’t super stoked to head up to the show because I was depressed. Even worse, I was by myself because, well, my friends just are not into this stuff. And, as the rain started, I could see the show getting cancelled. In fact, as “Run Like an Antelope” was cut short, I started to wander around, found no real place to go and decided to jet. I was walking through the attendance gates and couldn’t move because so many people found cover there. It was there I met some dude from Madison who talked me into staying because, hell, it was Phish and a Sunday show. And you never miss a Sunday show. And I stayed and it was good and weird and now I’ve been to one of “those” shows. But it was a community that helped one another (there was a lot of helping under that tent) and leaned on each other. We stand each other up… because we gotta dance and feel the joy.
It’s ultimately the music that brings me back and gives me life in the midst of terrible depression. Two shows right now are places I keep coming back to. The first is the Umphrey’s “Improv” show in Madison, Wisconsin, with Joshua Redman (January 28, 2016). In the second set the band simply steps up to their instruments, asks for a key, and begins playing. They don’t stop until the end of their set. And what Umphrey’s does so well is to take you on a journey, with highs and lows, fast and slow, mixing genres, etc. Listening brings me into a space where I don’t have to focus on my pain, my hurt, my incredibly dark thoughts. I can simply follow the band. And this is what I really appreciate about the last show, which is the famous, newly (officially) released Grateful DeadJuly 8, 1978 show at Red Rocks. The Dead do something different for me on a whole. They are always there, steady. They don’t let anyone drop out, even when someone takes risks. Jerry would come out and do something crazy and the band would be there and catch him. And it’s probably because I just got the show, but I feel safe here. In my depression, the band catches me and keeps me steady; their groove becomes my groove. Their musicianship is beautiful and space-y and takes me in and gives me the safe place that I need. It all works together to allow my mind a place to go when it hits its darkest moments.
In my opinion, many have a distorted idea of what makes a woman beautiful. She “must” have the body of a goddess, and…well actually, that’s about it. A woman should have a “perfect” body. If she does, then it often means she is sexy, successful and powerful.
But, what is a perfect body? I have struggled with both an eating disorder and bipolar disorder for many years. After I began to get a grip on the bipolar disorder, my weight exploded. What was happening? I threw myself even farther into my eating disorder, trying to combat the weight.
I had my last doctor’s appointment with my eating disorder doctor this past fall. My weight had finally stabilized from all the psychiatric medication changes. All my vitals were more than healthy. My cholesterol was great; my thyroid levels were awesome; my blood pressure and blood count checked out fine. All of my nutritional blood work came back saying I was eating enough and eating enough of the right foods.
I was healthy.
And yet, I weighed 240 pounds.
As I sat there and stared at the paperwork, my doctor pointed out numbers on charts with my configured blood work on them – percentages, ratios and abbreviations. I
listened. I understood. I can’t reiterate all of the terminology, but, what she told me was my psychiatric medications, while helping to keep my mind stable and not adversely affecting my overall health, make me what many people would consider “fat.”
It makes me sick to my stomach if I think of myself like that. It is hard to see all the jarring, red stretch marks from gaining what seems like an unbearable amount of weight. But slowly, I have come to the ability to cope with how much I weigh. It helps to have a strong family support system. It also helps to have an understanding primary care doctor, encouraging me to let it go – reminding me there is nothing I can do about losing weight in a healthy fashion, and my mental health is far more important.
Coming to the realization my mind is not something that can be cured completely has been surprisingly comforting – as I now better understand how to keep my life in balance. The medication is part of that balance.
And with finding the courage, among a world often propelled by a warped sense of physical beauty, to believe in my heart that I am gorgeous, despite my inability to lose weight, I feel myself being set free.
Psychiatric medication can take a real toll on your weight. But, just like the state of your mind doesn’t define you, your weight doesn’t define you either.
I know who I am. I struggle with bipolar disorder and I struggle with an eating disorder.
And despite all of this, I am not my illnesses.
I am so much more than that.
I am a fighter. My mind isn’t broken. My skin isn’t ugly. My body isn’t ruined.
I am a beautiful tiger who has earned her stripes.
I am beautiful.
The Mighty is asking its readers the following: What’s one secret about you or your loved one’s disability and/or disease that no one talks about? Check out ourSubmit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.