What the Pictures Don't Show

I couldn’t stop staring at the pictures.

I’ve pulled them up on my phone more times than I can count, just trying to convince myself they’re real.

The first time I saw that “before” picture, I was completely flabbergasted. I knew I was overweight, but I had no idea it looked like that. We didn’t even have a full-length mirror in the house at the time, so I never really saw the full picture.

But seeing them side by side?

It stopped me.

More than a year apart, and it feels like I’m looking at two completely different lives.

Back then, my day-to-day life was the best I could make of it while living with crippling depression and constant pain. My knees were so bad that just getting to the restroom meant using a walker. Some days, even the smallest tasks felt overwhelming.

I knew I was struggling. I knew my quality of life had changed drastically. But the pain was so intense that I could only focus on getting through a couple things each day. Even something as simple as going downstairs felt impossible on my own.

The hardest part wasn’t just the weight.

It was the pain. It was the instability. It was falling. It was needing a walker just to get around, and a wheelchair to leave the house for four years.

That was my reality.

And mentally… I was a mess.

From the outside, I tried to make it seem like I was doing okay. I showed up the best I could. I smiled when I needed to. I said I was “fine.”

But inside, the depression was heavy. It sat with me every day. And when I let myself really think about what my life had become—how much it had changed—it was overwhelming.

So a lot of the time, I didn’t let myself think about it too deeply.

I just focused on getting through the day.

One small thing at a time.

And somehow… even like that, I kept going.

But things weren’t getting better.

My knees kept getting worse and worse. I hadn’t left the house except for doctor’s appointments in about four years. And even that was an ordeal. Getting down the stairs was horrific, and having to use a wheelchair felt humiliating.

Every doctor I saw told me the same thing—I needed to lose weight before they would even consider replacing my knees.

I tried. I really did.

I started to lose a little weight, but not nearly enough to make a difference in their eyes.

And I felt stuck.

Like no matter what I did, I wasn’t going to get out of this.

Until someone stepped in and changed everything.

A friend recommended a doctor who was willing to do the surgery despite my weight.

And that decision changed my life completely.

Each of the three surgeries brought their own kind of pain, and I struggled through all of them.

But somewhere in that process, something shifted.

I learned that I can do hard things.

I started to build a kind of confidence in myself that I didn’t have before. I began standing up for myself more. Things that used to get to me don’t even bother me now, because I know there are more important things to focus on.

Everything feels different.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and it still catches me off guard. It feels like I’m looking at someone else.

But in the best way.

I’m just starting to get back into life again.

And I don’t take that lightly.

“Still going” means something different to me now.

It means continuing to learn.
Keeping faith in the process.
And doing something—anything—each day until those small things turn into bigger ones.

It means not giving up on myself.

And it also means recognizing the people who stood by me through it all.

My husband has been through so much taking care of me over the last couple of years. And a big part of this journey, for me, is finding my way back—not just to myself, but to the wife he once knew.

I’m not finished.

But I’m here.

And I’m still going.

10 Years

 

10 Years

 

It’s been 10 years. 10 solid years.

There’s got to be something bigger…A DECADE.

 

10 years since my suicide attempt

10 years since my last attempt at self-harm

10 years since I left that hospital resolved to never return

10 years since I started this blog

10 years since I started my book

10 years since I learned that I could be a mental health advocate

 

It’s been a decade.

 

I was forty years old back then, and I misunderstood everything. I still didn’t know why I cut myself, or why I ever said I wanted to die, even though I loved my husband so completely. I could tell other people that were struggling that they were loved and needed in this world. For some reason, it just didn’t apply to me.

 

You never could have convinced me at nineteen when I finally started getting treatment for my disease that I would be FIFTY years old and still talking about this. I just assumed back then that you took a pill for a while, maybe saw a doctor, perhaps a therapist and cried it out and boom! You’re good. I had no idea what I was in for.

 

I’m still in treatment every single day, and I always will be. The difference is now, I don’t hang my head in shame.  Now, I hold my head high because I made it to FIFTY and I’m pretty close to stable! I still have my horrendously bad days, and that’s something I’m prepared for. It will probably always happen, and I have better coping skills nowadays to get me through. My bad days don’t seem to last as long, and they certainly don’t drive me to self-harm.

 

I certainly never thought that at fifty years old I would be celebrating all of these milestones. There are things in my life that make it hard to feel like celebrating, but I’m working through it. Just for a minute, I can take some time and feel proud that I did it.

 

It’s not just about medication. You have to do the work. You have to talk to yourself every single day. You have to learn how to filter out negative thoughts. You have to teach yourself to say, “you know what, we didn’t get that done today, but it’s OK, tomorrow is another day”. Be nice to yourself. Read good books. Watch good movies. Listen to how other people talk to each other and gain perspective. Try therapy. Find yourself a GOOD doctor. Don’t just settle. You have every right to the best medical care. Surround yourself with good people that care about you. You’ll find your way. Just remember that you owe it to yourself to live the best life you can.

 

OK, I’m off my soapbox now. But I do get a lot of questions about these things. Just don’t forget, you’re still going to have bad times, but this does not make you a failure. That’s still a life lesson I’m trying to learn! Just try again tomorrow! I don’t feel fifty years old. Except for my bone-on-bone osteoarthritis knees, but that’s a whole other story! I don’t think I look my age or like I’ve been fighting demons for decades. I’m still going to keep fighting them with all that I have, I owe it to myself, and I owe it to my husband. We still have a lot of years together and there’s nobody else I would want to spend them with.

 

 

 

 

 

Bipolar Disorder 28 Years in the Making

I just turned 47 years old, and I suffer from bipolar disorder. Never in a million years did I think I would still be struggling at this age. Back when I was diagnosed, I remember thinking, I’ll just take these pills and that will take care of it. From age 19 on, things have progressively gotten worse with my symptoms. My 20’s were a nightmare filled with self- injury, suicide attempts, and hospitalizations.



It wasn’t until my 30’s that I started to see things more clearly. That is in a large part due to marrying a kind, caring, and compassionate man. That, coupled with finally getting mental health coverage, finally allowed me to choose a doctor that was a good fit for me. It was a struggle. It’s been very difficult to find one that I felt I could trust.



As I turned 40, thing seemed to come apart at the seams. I attempted suicide once again in 2013 and was hospitalized. I felt like I was starting all over again. The hospital was horrible, and I received no help whatsoever. I had to make the decision to try to play by the rules to get myself out of there.



In the years since that hospitalization, things have been incredibly up and down. I won’t lie, nothing has been easy. I now have a good doctor, but I think she might even be a bit confused about what to do next. It doesn’t help that I have a medication-resistant system.



I go to bed every night with the hopes that tomorrow will bring me a brighter day, and I’ll experience fewer symptoms. It’s useless for me to make to-do lists anymore. I’m overcome with guilt if I don’t accomplish everything on it. I don’t mean to make it sound as if the years have all been bad, and I never feel decent. I’ve accomplished some things I never thought I would, and my marriage is a strong and happy one.



However, the losses I’ve experienced have been crippling and incredibly difficult to endure. I have yet to attempt therapy again. I can say that no good has ever come from my experiences with therapists. Maybe I just never found the right therapist, or maybe I’m just too damn stubborn. My last therapist fell asleep while I was talking, so I’m passing on the experience for now.



At this stage in my life, I’ve been struggling quite a bit. Turning 47 doesn’t help matters any. You hope that after all of these years, you would have some insight into what does or doesn’t work on a daily basis. That is not the case for me. I’m grateful for the little things, and I try not to get too down on myself for the bad days.



For now, I will take comfort in the little things that some people may find trivial. A good movie, a good book, hearing my husband say I love you, and the occasional comments from folks around the world that are grateful for the honesty in my writing.

First Blog of 2020

I’ve been struggling. That’s not news to anyone that follows my Twitter feed. I don’t even know the reason life has been so hard for me lately. But, when life gets hard on me, things start falling by the wayside, and one of those things has been writing. I’ve mostly been featuring guest posts on my blog just to keep it active, while I’ve sat by and wished it was me who wrote every single article. I will say one thing that I do know for certain; losing our cat Hayley has had a profound effect on me. I knew it would be difficult when that day came, but I didn’t realize it would hurt like this.



So, it’s been hard to come up with topics when my brain is only stuck on that one tragic event. My health hasn’t been great, and family issues are never-ending, so all of that factors in as well.



The biggest struggle for me right now is watching my friends, peers, other advocates making an impact with their blogs or books or just overall advocacy. I feel like I’m running in the slow lane, and everyone is lapping me on the left. Don’t get me wrong. I am happy for anyone that is finding success, especially in the mental health field. I just thought I would be farther along than I am now, and it’s really stressing me out.



I want to write meaningful and impactful pieces once again. My brain seems to think that I’m all done with that. I cry most nights, just trying to find that one thing that will drag me out of this funk and back into the world. It’s pathetic to feel so envious of the people that I care about. I had hopes that once I sat down and started writing, I could create a masterpiece. I think that’s going to take more than one of these painful “come to Jesus” moments. I want to write for other publications again. It would help to have writing prompts I think. I don’t sign up for these projects because I’m afraid of letting everyone down, especially myself.



I didn’t want this to sound like I’m broken down and feeling sorry for myself, but it appears that’s how it’s coming across. My apologies. I’m just in a tricky place right now, and I’m hoping that someone will read this and perhaps take a moment to offer a few words of advice. Thank you so much for listening (reading, I should say). Wish me luck!

Then and Now

A lot of time has passed since my suicide attempt in 2013. Many things have changed. Some for the good, others for the bad. I’ve struggled with hard days, sometimes becoming hard weeks. However, I haven’t been quite as low as I am right now. Days have gone by without me even noticing. Sometimes I don’t even leave my bedroom. I keep it dark and stare off into space with the same TV shows or movies playing repeatedly in the background. I’ve cried, I’ve raged, I’ve even wanted to throw in the towel. This much pain is very difficult to carry.



Quite honestly, after two months of feeling this badly, I’m about to lose hope. I’m forcing myself to keep writing about my feelings so I can perhaps make sense of them.



Everyone always wants to look for a reason when I feel this way. Are you taking your medication? Did you see your doctor? Have you tried yoga? In looking back I realize that I do have a reason for the depression to start, just not necessarily to last as long as it has. In the first week of August, we said goodbye to our beloved cat, Hayley. She was by my side for 18 years. I know I’m still grieving, but there is a difference between just grieving and a major depressive episode.



I miss her so much, I’m not even sure how I’m going to get through this without her. Not being able to wake up to that beautiful face every morning has made my days unbearable.



The heavy burden that is bipolar depression feels nearly impossible to carry. I can’t seem to do it, I’ve tried. I’m not even sure what else to do.



Recently I posted on Twitter that I don’t want to be left behind; I want to stay relevant. I know that probably seems silly considering the battle I’m facing. It’s not silly to me; I worked very hard to try to become a positive influence in the mental health community. We’re taking a month-long hiatus from our podcast so I can recharge, and even that terrifies me. This is the first time I’ve been able to write anything in months.



I’m desperately shrugging off the urge to call this garbage and throw it all away. Still, maybe it will help me…maybe it will help someone reading it. After all, isn’t that the reason why we put ourselves out there like we do? I hope being honest about my struggles lets others know they’re not alone in this fight. Still, I would love to find out how I’m going to climb out from under this dark cloud. Perhaps all it takes is time, and maybe I’m doing everything exactly the way I should be. Maybe I’m not failing as my depression likes to tell me.



One day, I’ll be able to look back on this and be grateful I didn’t give up. Until then, I’m going to have to force myself to stay the course. Remain calm and take it a step at a time. I’ll get there; I just wish I knew when.

Saying Goodbye

There’s a myriad of emotions that person experiences when they lose a beloved pet. For some, it’s not just your run of the mill sadness, it’s a deep-rooted grief that completely cripples you. You always know deep down in your heart that one day you aren’t going to have them anymore. So, you spoil them and cater to their every whim. All because one day you won’t be able to. Especially once they start to get older.

Coping with the loss of my cat, Hayley after 18 years has caused a whole new set of problems. The first being massive panic attacks. Hayley wasn’t technically a therapy pet, but she would have passed with flying colors had I tried to certify her. She checked on me if I coughed, let alone a full-blown panic and crying. So, I’m feeling more alone than I ever thought I would, and having bipolar disorder isn’t helping the situation. I was thoroughly depressed before any of this came up with Hayley, so this piled on top is just too much weight to carry.

I know there are people out there that don’t treat their pets the same way…don’t treat them like they’re one of the family, but that’s not us. Every day, I found myself thinking of her and it immediately launches me into a panic attack. It’s only been 2 days since we said goodbye. I’ll never get that image of her passing out of my head. I considered closing my eyes for it, but when it came down to it, I was more worried about Hayley possibly feeling scared. Then the Vet listened and said, “Her heart has stopped. She has passed away”.

That cat meant everything to me. I don’t work out of the home, so I am usually home with all the cats every day. Hayley has been sick off and on for 2 years, so I feel like I have been caring for her all of that time. She was 18!!! She lived a good, full life but that’s not enough. 

She loved us and we worshipped her. She was the most beautiful cat I have ever seen. She was smart and knew exactly when her mom needed her.

Since this past Tuesday, I’ve experienced 11 different panic attacks because she wasn’t there and I expected her to be. Here are the steps in the grieving process:

Grief typically has five stages;

1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

I am most certainly in the denial part. I keep telling myself that if I don’t think about it, I’ll be fine.

Here’s a quote from the Bipolar Lives website:

It doesn’t matter if it’s a friend, family member or pet. The loss of a loved one can be especially devastating if you are bipolar.

I can’t comprehend what the next year or so is going to be. I keep thinking about her Christmas stocking. I don’t think we’ll put it up. I’m having trouble seeing photos of her too. They instantly cause anxiety. It’s like this feeling like somebody has two hands wrapped around my windpipe and it hurts to breathe.

So, is there a way out of this? For me personally, I don’t stop grieving until my brain tells me that it’s safe. I can’t do yoga or write down my feelings every day, etc. None of those things are helpful to me. My plan of attack is to talk to my doctor and see what she can do for me.

In the meantime, I’ll deal with this pain and heartache. The next stage of grief is anger. I’m not looking forward to that one.

Wish me luck.

A Million Pieces

I didn’t see this one coming. I was blindsided by my own brain. To my knowledge, no one can predict depression, but there are certainly warning signs. I used to be able to feel it coming on. My body would start to feel heavier, and my mind would turn to darkness.

Sometimes, this disease makes me feel locked out of my own life. Everything still goes on without me, even though I should be right in the middle of it. I worry about anything and everything. In the back of my damaged brain, I know that worrying won’t help the situation. Right now, though, it feels like the only thing I can do. 

I need to wake up tomorrow with a renewed sense of hope. I don’t want to carry around this black cloud above my head. The truth is, I hope for that every single night.

In June, my husband and I took an all-expense paid trip to California for a mental health conference. I thought I had left my social anxiety and agoraphobia at home. Even though I loved where we stayed in Laguna Beach, and the people were fantastic, I still dealt with daily migraines and the feeling that everyone was staring at me all the time. My health isn’t so great. My weight is out of control, and both of my knees have been injured. Anyway, I’ve been struggling ever since we got home. I do miss Laguna Beach.

This time feels different; it’s not just vacation is over blah; it’s crippling depression and anxiety constantly bubbling up to the surface. I won’t even try to go into the family issues, because quite frankly, it’s far too upsetting. But, things are not good there either. Just thinking about it all causes panic attacks.

I rescheduled my most recent doctor visit due to a migraine, and I should feel relieved, but all I feel is guilt. I know it was last minute and I should have gone, but nothing gets me out of my bedroom these days. I feel like such a tremendous failure.

People are very nice about my struggles, but how long will that last? That isn’t to say that they aren’t good people. I just mean I’ve been stringing them along for a while now.

I feel like I’m about to shatter into a million pieces. 

As if I didn’t have enough to be emotional about, we had to take our beloved cat, Hayley to the vet, and have her put to sleep. She was 18 (that’s how long we’ve been married) and had gotten very sick. I know it was the humane thing to do, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. Aside from my husband, that cat was my whole world. I was literally with her 24 hours a day. Right now, I’m stuck between denial and just completely falling apart.

I miss her so much.

So, I ask…how long will it last this time? When will I wake up in the morning and want to live? Don’t get me wrong; I’m not suicidal. I’ll never go back there again. I just don’t feel like a part of the world right now, and with Hayley gone, I’m now alone constantly. What a crippling and painful experience. Depression brings out the worst in people, especially me. The question is: When will I find the good in me?

I’m grateful that I’m still here and that I can put my thoughts down on paper. I never want to think about suicide again. I suppose every day that I wake up is a good one. Let’s just hope that it can be enough for me right now. Enough to stop feeling so lost and alone. I can only hope.

What Now?

I can’t believe I’m back here again. I don’t know why I’m so surprised, I’ve never claimed to be cured of Bipolar Disorder, nor do I think I ever will be. It’s going to happen for the rest of my life. I guess this time is different because I have done pretty well for quite a while. It felt like my depressive states weren’t as long and believe me; I was enjoying that. I’ve felt this way for a week now, and it’s taking everything I have to force myself to sit down and write this blog post.

I should be doing something; anything. Something on a grand scale that cements my legacy. Instead, I feel like I’m failing at life once again. I need to stay relevant. My story needs to stay relevant. But, how can you claim to be a writer when you can’t even write. I’m not suicidal. I put that notion out of my brain in 2013. I can’t even site anything specific that has happened to cause me to feel this way, but despite my best efforts, I do feel this way, and I need to deal with it.

I can’t keep my garbled up thoughts together. I’m struggling, and I’ve crashed hard. 

I keep telling myself, just get up and do it! Why is it so hard? Even writing this, I feel unorganized and disjointed. I don’t know how to get my thoughts together. So I write, regardless. You never know when you can suddenly have a breakthrough or make a connection. You may never even realize you helped someone.

You’re a fighter – I’m a fighter

We have no choice but to make it through this round.

I can’t concentrate, but my head keeps screaming, KEEP WRITING!

Bipolar Disorder is a painful, insidious disease. I’ve experienced depression before that just kind of felt like the blues. This is not that. I’m stuck here in this painful, crippling rut. I can’t even remember my name somedays, but I keep fighting. We did our podcast today, and I spoke to the audience and the guest. Does that mean I feel better? Hardly, it means I can put on a mask if I need to.

Someone out there may feel the same way. I could help people. That would be worth tearing off this band-aid and exposing the wound, wouldn’t it?

So much is racing through my brain. I just don’t want to fail yet again. It hurts, and it’s humiliating. I think when you have Bipolar Disorder, it hurts even worse. I need rest and some way to keep my mind off the bad stuff. So, I’ll figure that out and try to move forward. I can only go up or down, and right now, I feel as if I’m just about as low as a person can go. Here’s hoping something positive heads my way. Until then, I’ll keep trying and keep fighting. That’s all I can do.

Guest Post - Mental Health Awareness Month - Death Becomes Her - Erika Reva Memering

“What we have once enjoyed deeply we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.” -Helen Keller

Death becomes her. I’ve written quite a bit about loss, life, living and Death. Capital D. If you’ve encountered my ramblings on the subject you’ll know I give her the respect of the capital. It seems owed her, even after all I’ve given; paying the piper, as they say. It’s also been said, as so many things are, “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.” Whether or not Helen Keller was correct in that I cannot say. I will however express my annoyance with the sentiment. 

By age five I was quite finished with the idea of adventure. For those who may be unfamiliar with the word, it is defined as: an unusual and exciting, typically hazardous, experience or activity. Simple enough. Though I don’t much care for the idea of myself as a five year old, or any preschooler for that matter, being intimately aware of the word and all it can entail, nevertheless, here we are. 

I was taught that the way of progress was neither swift nor easy. That little nugget of truth came to me from two very important women in my early life. Madam Marie Curie was far wiser than could have been fully comprehended, even today in some respects. She is someone I have looked up to since I was that inconsequential, five year old child and I stumbled across one of the many biographies written about her. I was lucky in that for the first decade or so of my life, there was a Chicago public library right on the corner of my street. That librarian was far and wide one of my favorite people. Parts of me still miss her even today some twenty-five plus years later. She was warm. Soft. Curvy but rather short. Deep brown eyes that never seemed bothered by my incessant questions and small maundering. Her dark chocolate skin was exquisite with her full face and lips. Hair, always expertly polished and that full beautiful face held the strength, grace, and nurture I had never known before. Understated, elegance; she was my hero. My beautiful book of never ending knowledge. 

I don’t remember the day in full glorious technicolor, but what I know was this:

1. I was alone
2. I had read a book that depicted men on a ship who tied knots.
3. I was always alone, or so I thought and felt more often than not.
4. I had a circus themed toy box. A giant burnt orange tiger painted on the white wood behind green wooden dowels held it back, keeping me safe from it’s bright yellow eyes. I can recall the mantra of “it’s caged,” careening throughout my mind day in and day out. Night after night. 
5. My closet was a bit larger and so my father had kept some of his items in the back.

I scaled (with only minimal difficulty) the toy chest, procured one of my father’s neckties, looped it round into a slip knot, tossed an end over the wooden clothes bar,  and slipped it 'round my little throat. Precariously standing atop the wooden toy chest with the yellow eyed tiger leering up at me, I took a step to await her arrival. Death. It was as though my slight self desired to snub her, perhaps dare her come to me. This obviously didn’t occur and I wouldn’t know just how I survived my first and only suicide attempt until nearly two decades later. Which let me tell you, was a bitch of an experience…rather a couple dozen years of experiences that I was only half conscious for and some I have no idea about to this day, but that’s life with Dissociative Identity Disorder; rather, it was what my life was like. 

At the evening of my writing this piece: I am thirty-two years old, an author, podcaster and an advocate for those living with Dissociative and trauma based disorders. I still live in the Midwest but not alone. My husband of five years, our gardens, and animals keep me pleasantly busy and content. Dare I say even happy. All day every day? No of course not, that’s not the human experience, all emotions are important and valid. This is something I’m still working on today. The trauma’s of my past still haunt me today, but that doesn’t mean I am not equipped now to handle these instances, soothe myself and carry on with my day(s).

I am fourteen days “PD,” post doc; if you will, has been an experience. A positive one yet still bizarre to recognize and sit with. I’ve spent the better part of the last six+ years in intensive outpatient therapy. Multiple days a week with extended sessions each day/night. My six years is the mathematical equivalent to the average work that is done in a fourteen-fifteen year period. Yes, I sat down and did the math. I always call therapy, work. Because that’s the point. To work on oneself, learn, grow, adapt and whatever else ones goals or reasons may be it is most certainly work. I find the notion that people, meaning the broad spectrums and groups of them, need to adapt to me bizarre. Life adapts. Things ebb, flow, and evolve. I am no different, but that was on me to do the work. Now, it most certainly took years and years…and years to find someone able to help me with this. To help us with the chaos and turmoil was in short, an epic battle of ridiculous excessive repetitive exhaustive recurring traumas. Ok, so it was not short, but it was still accomplished because part of me despite fear, horror and all the etceteras life hurled at us, she chose to keep going. We did. I did. The We in Me, are no longer surviving but now I am living. It’s a heady accomplishment.  The labor and exertion have been found worth it with insistent gusto. Persistence, determination and a tenacious take no piss attitude drove myself and every part of me forward. No offense to Helen Keller, but I’ve made so much of my nothing that it would make her head spin. 

“One never notices what has been done; one can only see what remains to be done.” -Marie Curie 

What was is no longer what is. What has been has come to pass. What will be? Well, I have no definitive idea, but I certainly have hopes, fears, wishes, so much more, but the most invaluable of these that still remains etched upon me is words. I have every word I’ve obsessively studied and still restudy due to the discomfort of my losing it. Given the amnesia aspects of living with DID (especially, when you are unaware of the fact pre-diagnosis) I still do some things in my day to day life in quite the obsessive manner. I am, however, working on this ever-day. Yes, I still have Dissociative Identity Disorder and OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), but I’m working on treating the annoyances that poke their ugly heads outta my brain every now and again. It’s work, as I said; work I will gladly continue for the betterment of my own life as well as others. 

“Nothing in life is to be feared, it is only to be understood. Now is the time to understand more, so that we may fear less.” 

- Marie Curie

Guest Post - The Stigma Surrounding Bipolar Disorder is Real - Mental Health Awareness Month - By John Poehler

The dictionary defines stigma as, “A mark of disgrace associated with a particular circumstance, quality, or person.”

In this instance, stigma is associated with bipolar disorder. There is definitely “a mark of disgrace” accompanying bipolar disorder.

There are a number of ways we can help to stomp out the stigma of bipolar disorder.

First, let us take a look at how and why there is a stigma in the first place. 

INTRODUCTION TO STIGMA

Most people do not take the time to learn about mental illness unless they are directly impacted. I know I fell into this category when I was younger. 

Growing up, I never took a psychology class or a class about mental health or mental illness. My education about anything related to mental health was limited to pop culture and those closest to me. Most of my friends and family knew nothing about bipolar disorder.

I completely understand.

A ROOT OF STIGMA

Bipolar disorder is an illness. Unless you are a doctor or other medical professional, most people do not take the time to research sickness or other maladies. Even then, medical professionals are not properly trained about bipolar disorder (or mental illness and mental health) unless they specialize in psychiatry.

How is the general public supposed to understand bipolar disorder if those who are supposed to be treating it do not even have a basic knowledge about it?

Psychiatrists are specialists. They get extra training on how to treat different mental illnesses and other mental health issues.

The problem arises when general doctors, emergency personnel and other medical professionals that see patients on a regular basis, do not have the training or education to help those suffering from a mood disorder.

See how the breakdown in how information is siphoned through the mental health system contributes to the stigma surrounding bipolar disorder?

If those who are supposed to have the knowledge of bipolar disorder do not, how should we expect the general public to understand?

Please, do not get me wrong. It is not my intention to point blame. 

My hope is by pinpointing one of the root causes of stigma, we can take action to reduce it in the future. 

MISCONCEPTIONS

It is easy to get frustrated with the misinformation plaguing society.

Some of these misconceptions can be easily clarified. The problem is getting the right information to those who need to hear it.

It may not feel like it but you can make a difference by simply correcting those who are spreading the wrong information.

There are countless misconceptions that I would like to clear up for you today.

Let us dive right in.  

1. BIPOLAR DISORDER IS NOT SERIOUS

Downplaying the seriousness of bipolar disorder minimizes our daily fight with the bipolar battle. When you hear individuals candidly joke about bipolar disorder, they are contributing to the stigma surrounding it.

Yes, there are degrees of severity when it comes to this illness. The severity is regarding the symptomology. However, it does not matter what type of bipolar disorder you are diagnosed.

Bipolar disorder is bipolar disorder.

The type of bipolar is just a way to communicate the treatment route you should follow.

As a mental illness, bipolar disorder is extremely serious. It is not only an illness about mood fluctuations. 

By the way, everyone experiences the daily ebb and flow of emotions. It is human nature.

Bipolar disorder increases the intensity of these mood fluctuations. It also directly impacts energy level, motivation and overall ability to function.

Suicide is also a real threat.

It is estimated that 25% and 60% of individuals living with bipolar disorder will attempt suicide once in their lives. Between 4% and 19% will complete suicide.

Is bipolar disorder serious?

You’re damn straight it is!

2. BIPOLAR DISORDER IS “THE IN THING”

Sensationalizing bipolar disorder is another way to minimize it.

Celebrities and those in the spotlight are “coming out” with their illness. Please do not get me wrong. I think any way we can open up the conversation about mental illness is a positive step forward.

The problem comes when those interpreting these actions digests the information as something cool. Then, the news spreads about this new exciting and mysterious phenomena.

Perceiving bipolar disorder as the “cool” or “in thing” downplays the seriousness of the illness.

In turn, this further contributes to the overall stigma.

3. “EVERYONE HAS A LITTLE BIPOLAR IN THEM”

You may have already caught on that these misconceptions come back to the idea that bipolar disorder is not serious.

I understand the whole premise of this statement.

Everyone has varying emotions throughout their lives. This is completely true and valid.

The misconception arises when people pair the normal ups and downs of life with that of bipolar disorder. They are completely and utterly different.

Only a medical professional can properly diagnose bipolar disorder.

No, everyone does not have a little bipolar in them. 

4. YOU CAN TREAT BIPOLAR DISORDER WITH EXERCISE AND A HEALTHY DIET

If you could treat bipolar disorder with exercise and a healthy diet, you would never see any professional athlete with the diagnosis.

Granted, the seriousness and intensity of symptoms can vary extremely between patients. The first line of attack is the medical model – medication management and talk therapy.

When I was first diagnosed in 1999, my doctors hammered home the idea that I needed medication and therapy.

I have learned and am living proof of the importance of medication and therapy in my treatment plan.

For the long term management of bipolar disorder, I have found that healthy habits and choices directly impact my success.

For example, I lift weights every day with a rest day every so often.

I also eat healthy meals, drink plenty of water, and supplement on a daily basis.

Exercise and a healthy diet are components you should add to the overall treatment of your bipolar disorder.

No, exercise and a healthy diet will not cure bipolar disorder but they will help you successfully manage it.

5. BIPOLAR DISORDER IS THE END OF MY LIFE

This could not be further from the truth.

No one wants to hear that they are sick. I completely understand.

For me, my diagnosis of bipolar was a welcome relief. I learned that, yes I was sick, and I could do something about it.

I am a firm believer that with the proper treatment, bipolar disorder can be successfully managed. The hard part is navigating the path to the right treatment. That is the reason you have both a doctor and therapist to help guide you.

Most of my plans, goals, and aspirations were completely changed after I learned of my illness.

Bipolar disorder sets clear boundaries as to expectations and functionality.

With these boundaries, I know my limitations and strengths. They may not be apparent when you are first diagnosed but you will find them with time and further introspection.

Therapy is a wonderful tool to help build your self-awareness.

Bipolar disorder is not the end, it is only the beginning.

WHAT CAN YOU DO ABOUT STIGMA?

Advocates and advocacy groups are ways we can help break down the walls of stigma.

We have the power to enlighten those who have the wrong information and do not understand bipolar disorder.

The misconceptions about bipolar disorder are running rampant throughout our society. Most people already have a negative outlook regarding bipolar disorder.

If you are diagnosed with bipolar disorder, take positive action in your treatment. Work with your doctor, therapist and loved ones to create a crisis and treatment plan.

You can help stomp stigma by being a positive role model in how you manage your bipolar.

LAST THOUGHTS

I can’t tell you the number of times I have spoken to people who have no direct experience with bipolar disorder. They tell me all about their perceptions (or misconceptions).

Recently, a guy told me, “You don’t seem like you have bipolar disorder. I thought all of those people with bipolar disorder don’t take their meds and do whatever they want.”

I explained to him my story and how I manage my bipolar disorder on a daily basis in healthy and proactive ways.

With my treatment plan, I have put myself in the driver seat of my own life.

I don’t want it to seem like I am tooting my own horn.

It is my firm belief that if we can show to ourselves and society, that we are responsible for our illness and we are positive contributing members of society, we can help to destroy stigma.

Yes, it does start with one person.

That person is you!