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What We Need to Remember When Celebrities Struggle With Mental Health

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As a young adult living with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, I have experienced stigma very early on in my life. That is even before being formally diagnosed with the illness. Now that I have been stable and in recovery for more than half a decade, most people are surprised when they learn that I have struggled with my mental health. Each time, they are supportive and say they have enjoyed watching my TEDx talk. Or they express admiration for some of the community work I have done or for the awards I have received over the years. But truth to be told, things have not always been this way. And to be honest, I’ve come a long way.

As I learned that anyone can struggle with their mental health, I saw that this is no different for those who truly live with fame. And I was upset to realize that celebrities, more often than not, seem not to be seen as deserving of the same respect I’ve gotten whenever I disclosed my past health issues. And that profoundly bothers me.

We have all these conversations in the media and awareness campaigns about mental
health and mental illness. About how it’s important to be supportive and caring about one another. Yet, whenever a celebrity is visibly struggling, either by posting strange Facebook rants or by their behavior that seems erratic, then all of a sudden, that support doesn’t seem to be there anymore. The empathy goes straight out the door. People start using words like “freak,” “psychopath,” “crazy” and so on. And even worse, that public personality becomes a circus beast for the world to see and for the pleasure of the press.

Let me tell you one thing. Mental health and mental illness do not always look pretty. It’s not always flowers and butterflies. People aren’t always in a place of recovery. It’s incredibly hard to get to that place of recovery. It’s hard to maintain as well because relapses can always occur. You can never take recovery for granted. And, it’s even harder to get to that point when you’re being turned out into ridicule in front of the entire planet when you’re at your lowest. When you’re at your most vulnerable.

It sincerely bothers me. And I find this incredibly hypocritical. A lot of people seem to be supportive of people with mental illnesses only if they are conforming to the norm and walking between the margins or are “recovered.” If they get back to a place of pain and struggle, we, as a society, are quick to judge. We are quick to walk away when this is precisely what mental health and mental illness are all about: a spectrum with highs and lows. Mental health and mental illness is not just an abstract concept. It is very real and has real faces, stories and people to it.

In my case, I personally wonder every single day who, among the people who know about my diagnosis, will truly be there for me the day that I fall back again? It’s easy to be supportive when everything is in order. When it’ll be a mess, who will stick around?

So next time you see anyone — famous or not — who has a behavior that puts you off, think twice. Remember that this could be your mother, father, sister, brother, friend or co-worker. Remember that it could be you. Even if you’re not a social worker, avoid using harmful words. Refrain from condemning that person. Tell this person that you’ve noticed some changes in their behavior lately and that you are genuinely worried about them. Tell them that you trust them to find the solutions that are best for them. Refer them to a professional and offer to go with them. The bottom line is, be kind. To anyone. You never know what battles someone is fighting behind closed doors. Don’t make their burden even worse. And that applies to any human being on this earth.

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To the Boy Who Wants to Get to Know Me

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If there is one thing I’m really good at, it’s blending in. I walk slowly and speak quietly. I avoid eye contact and sit between strangers so as to never engage in a conversation. I know I hide from the world very well. So I’m not sure how you keep seeing me through the woods I call my insecurities.

I hide in the corner for a reason. Although I am not ashamed of my illness, the world is ashamed of me. My aim is to hide my illness from you because I don’t think you could deal with all the ups and downs my bipolar brings. Perhaps you haven’t read my blog. It will show you the real me. The me I cannot express when I stand in front of you.

You don’t know my name, and you shouldn’t. My emotions are a raging storm that act like a dormant volcano. One day there is nothing and the next day everything is destroyed.

How do I tell you I have bipolar? That my depression leaves me crying naked on the floor. The darkness comes creeping in and takes a hold of my mind. It refuses to let me sleep and is jealous of all my friends. It isolates and weakens me. Trust me when I say, you don’t want to know my name. Because when the darkness comes I will become a burden to your spirit, using your light to hide my darkness, using your voice because I have lost mine.

I am afraid to get too close to you because of what I do to everyone I love. My hands are ice cold from years of wiping away my own tears. I do not know if I have the capacity to love you because I struggle to love myself on most days. I look in the mirror and see a shadow. So I cannot understand when you say I am beautiful.

I have asked you on many occasions to not fall in love with me, as the elements of my soul cannot be seen in the frown lines of my face. I am afraid because most people do not know how to love someone like me, someone who’s moods are unpredictable and often volatile. I am afraid of being loved — because I don’t think I know how to love.

From,

The Girl Who Is Afraid To Be Loved

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Living With Bipolar Disorder: The 3 Parts of Being 'OK'

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Any day I can get out of bed and make more than a single phone call, I am doing great. I have lived through intense highs and deep lows that together were a personal hell. Such is my experience of bipolar disorder. I lived through it, I live with it and I grow from it. Mettle has been tested and I am f*cking titanium. How come I, like an alchemist, transform this potential fatal poison into an elixir that makes me stronger? I believe it can be broken down into three parts.

For a while, after being in the psych hospital, I was in denial about my illness. I was released under the promise of enrolling in mandatory outpatient care three times a week and under the supervision of a psycho-pharmacologist. There was a moment after being in the hospital that I knew I had to choose. I was sitting in the muted brown and rust colored room of my doctor. I was staring at the acrylic painting of the New Mexico desert with a cactus in bloom. It was there I knew I had to make a choice.

That’s the first part: choice.

I decided to do whatever I had to do to be healthy in mind, body and spirit.

I didn’t chose a brain disorder but I could chose my life, my habits, my nutrition, to take control of my medication and doctors. I chose it all. Whatever I needed to do to be healthy I was going to do it . This also required a new understanding of health, but I didn’t know that at the time.

The second piece to being “OK” has two parts. It’s luck and support. I am lucky to have an amazing support system — and to afford it. I have family, friends and doctors whom I trust and who work with me. If I tell them some medication needs adjusting, they respond. If they see some indicator in my behavior that raises a flag for them, we discuss it. There are no forced medication or treatments.

If I didn’t have them, all the choices in the world would do nothing. I mean that. If you don’t have doctors you can trust, find new ones. It can be work and it is frustrating, but this is your one and only life and your health.

Some things over these years have really sucked. I am angry I had to go to the hospital, angry I am “sick” and that there’s stigma about my brain, heartbroken about all the time wasted on doctors and blood tests and getting medications correct. There is deep grief about the course I felt my life was going to take, but instead I got the “life interrupted” version.

I wish I could say I have found the golden key to make it all better.

What I can offer you is my honesty and experience and willingness to share the journey. This helps. It’s hasn’t always been pretty or easy but I can offer to you with my whole heart and a deep wish that it will be useful to you and your loved ones. I know what it feels like to have your freedom taken away. To wake up when they tell you to wakeup. To swallow what they tell you to swallow. To stare out of one little window for hours. To feel as though you are declared less than human. To be declared incompetent, crazy.

I also know what it is to fight for your life. However small it may seem. I know what it is to be a survivor — to find strength in the darkest days when the best thing you can hope for is to make it out of your bed long enough to go to the bathroom and maybe to the kitchen. I know what it is to feel like there is something inside you that has something to offer this world and that it worth fighting for, that you are worth fighting for. And I finally know what it is to own my own power and be what could only be described as resilient.

And when I truly allow myself to feel the grief, shame and the anger and let the tears come, one thing is always there beneath it all. In the still and silence of myself, there is grace.

This is the third piece. Grace is beyond luck, and more encompassing than support and choice. Even with the best of friends and family and doctors, there are things I have to face alone in my mind and heart no one will ever know. No matter how transparent I am, some things are sacred and private and mine alone. I have learned a kind of surrender and acceptance, and it’s what I move towards every day .

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Real People, Real Stories: Life With Bipolar Disorder E-Book

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Real People, Real Stories: Life With Bipolar Disorder is a collection of 10 powerful stories from people in our Mighty community who live with bipolar disorder.

Click below to download the e-book:

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The book contains the following stories:

I’m an Olympian, Former Escort and Now – a Mental Health Advocate by Suzy Favor Hamilton

To Myself, the Day I Was Diagnosed: Bipolar Is Not the End, but the Beginning by Madelyn Heslet

The Words That Changed My Outlook on Living With Bipolar Disorder by Emily Stainton

‘Functional’ Is a 24/7 Job When You Live With Bipolar Disorder by Steve Imperato

The Secret Truths of a Bipolar Girl by Danielle Hark

The Blur of Bipolar Disorder by Fraser Speaks

Dear Future Boyfriend, From a Girl With Bipolar Disorder by Shelby Manoukian

10 Things I Wish My Loved Ones Knew About Living With Bipolar Disorder by Nichole Howson

Why My Kids Know Mommy Has Bipolar Disorder by Jennifer Marshall

Psychosis Isn’t Shameful, It’s a Symptom by Charlie Kaplan

Download our E-Book

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The Scary Statistic About Bipolar Disorder That Needs to Be Addressed

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I have done some research about my illness. I learned that 1 in 5 people die by suicide. Those are scary statistics when you think about it. It means I have a pretty good chance of not watching my children grow up. I could miss out on the first day of school, proms, graduation, weddings and even meeting my grandchildren.

A person with my illness has an average lifespan decreased by 9.2 years. 9.2 years. This means there would be almost a decade or more of time, I would end up missing out on. 9.2 years. It makes my heart ache just thinking about it. I would potentially miss nine years or more with my loving husband.

The hardest part of it all is there is no cure. There is no “getting better.” There is only remission maintained by diet, exercise, outpatient therapy and medications. This is if I have the insurance to cover all my medications, regular blood tests required by some medications and doctor visits.

Then, there are the side effects of some of the life-sustaining medications: loss of fine motor skills, liver damage and weight gain to name a few. These are the sacrifices made to keep me alive, if I can afford it. Sometimes, I don’t have the money and I have to go at it alone. I have to take each episode as it comes, praying I have enough strength to make it to the next.

Some days, I grow weary of the struggle. I get tired of fighting and I just want to let fate decide. I look into my children’s face and believe they  deserve better than an always sick mom. Then, I think about going to the hospital for treatment, just to stay long enough to get myself in a good place. But who would take care of my children?

It’s hard to get people to watch my kids. Sure, people may feel sorry for me, but not enough to reach out a helping hand.

If I end up falling into the “1 out of 5” statistic, I will seen as a villain — not a hero. There most likely will be no ribbons worn in honor of me. No one will be there to light a luminary at a walk in support of my illness. There won’t be t-shirts, no fundraisers, no memorials or 5Ks. No one will talk about the fight I put up. They will only focus on the part where I “gave up.”

The stigma of my death will carry on to my children. For, if my children chose to share how I died, they will probably not be met with sympathy — but pity. My death will forever lower my worth as a mother. It is a shame because my children will know how hard I fought. However, they will be frowned upon if they choose to honor me. They will have to defend the legitimacy of my illness.

However, there is a silver lining in all of this. Though it may be potentially deadly, it is not terminal. Matter of fact, death from this illness is 100 percent preventable. With research, awareness and proper treatment, no one will ever have to die from this illness.

I have bipolar disorder. Bipolar disorder affects approximately 5.7 million adult Americans, or about 2.6 percent of the U.S. population age 18 and older every year. Bipolar disorder results in 9.2 years reduction in expected life span, and as many as 1 in 5 patients with bipolar disorder completes suicide. These are unavoidable truths that need to be addressed.

Truth is, I don’t want to be a statistic. Seeing my children have at least a 15 to 30 percent chance of being bipolar, I don’t want them to be one either. We need to stop treating mental illnesses so lightly. We need to start recognizing that they are potently deadly illnesses.

No matter how someone dies, their life mattered. We need to start recognizing this and start acting upon it. My fight deserves the same dignity and respect as any other. In this world, every life is precious.

Follow this journey on The Bipolar Mama.

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.

If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 

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To the People Who Question Why I Talk to My Daughters About My Bipolar Disorder

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This is a controversial topic. Some people say I am wrong for sharing details of my illness with my children. Some people see this as me “not protecting” them from my illness. Some say I should never have had children as a woman with bipolar disorder, which can be hereditary.

To all those people, I say read my story first. To them, I say get to know my children, get to know the kind, intelligent, beautiful girls I am privileged to be able to call my daughters. Read my reasons for telling them about my mental health issues. I strongly believe that the unknown is nearly always scarier than the known.

Yes, there are some really scary stories about mental health issues out there. Yet, having facts and some understanding can make it less frightening and therefore, more easy to process and deal with. Obviously, this needs to be at an age-appropriate level. When my children were younger, I told them sometimes my illness makes me feel like Tigger, very happy and full of energy for no reason. Other times, it makes mom sad and tired for no reason.

I told them these things happened to me and it wasn’t because of anything they did or didn’t do. There. That’s it. A simple explanation, which tries to make a bit of sense out of my illness. It also reassures them mom’s illness is not related to their behavior.

Now my girls are teenagers. They have a greater understanding. They ask questions and they do their own research. They meet the professionals involved in my care and they know it is the professionals’ job to help me. Having said that, yes, they do help me. They help in the house. They give me cuddles when I’m down. They help just by being themselves. We love each other unconditionally.

I am not saying it is always easy for them, for me or anyone else involved. Of course, I wish I could do more and do it consistently for them. I wish I could earn more money to take them on more holidays and days out. For them, I know it is difficult if I have to go into hospital or the crisis unit. They miss me, just as I miss them when this happens. However, they have a brilliant dad, who already does so much for them and steps up further when I am unwell. We have joint custody and are very close anyway, living a few doors from each other to limit disruption to the children.

Up until recently, they also had a wonderful grandma in my mom, who supported them practically and emotionally. Over the years, they have had good teachers who have also been there for them. I also have some amazing friends who do what they can to help both me and the children.

Regarding the point about some illnesses having a hereditary aspect, mental health issues are common. We’ve all heard the “1 in 4 people will be affected” statistic. We are all at risk. Of course, it would break my heart should either of my children become unwell in any way, physically or mentally. I would like to think because of my own experiences, I would be able to support them in every way possible, regardless of anything that could happen.

In many ways, they are equipped to deal with some adversity already. Due to my illness, my children have had to learn resilience, which is not a bad thing. I’ve also already noticed how nonjudgmental they are and how they are able to emphathize with others. Recently, I was told my eldest daughter sat with an older girl who was having a panic attack. My daughter had stayed with her and helped the girl manage her anxiety. My daughter made sure the girl was safe and able to return to class. This makes me proud.

I’ve noticed neither of my children are ashamed of me or my illness. It’s not a massive deal to them and the stigma isn’t being passed on through my children. They will both quite happily say, “Oh yeah, my mom has bipolar disorder. Do you have any questions?” This is exactly how I think it should be.

Finally, I’d like to say in no way are my daughters missing out. My older daughter is academic and achieves top grades at school, alongside a small group of very good friends. Aside from that, we send her to drama school on weekends, as she has a beautiful singing voice. She would like to work in musical theater because as she says, “It makes everyone feel something and be happy.” My younger daughter is a talented gymnast, cheerleader and artist. She is a beautiful little girl who does well at school and has a large circle of friends.

They both make me and their dad proud of them every day and everyone who meets them thinks they are bright, polite, lovely girls. They are all this, in spite of having a mum with bipolar disorder and other mental health issues. Most importantly, they are happy. We must be doing something right.

Don’t judge me for being a mom with mental health issues. Don’t tell me I’m doing it all wrong by telling my children about these issues. So far they are doing just fine, thanks.

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