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If I wrote a book it would be about being my mental illness. I would have no other choice because that it is the one constant thing in my life I have always come back to. I've just never known what it was it or what to call it. But last January 2010 that all changed when I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 Mood Disorder and PTSD...
I recently read a book by Russell Brand called My Booky Wook. I thought it was absolutely brilliant! It also gave me a reason to pause and think about something very near to me. Some of the subject matter Brand writes about in his book hit a little too close to home for me to ignore. His book got me thinking about my writing, specifically that lack of it. It's no secret that my postings have been sparse in the past few months. At the very least they have been lacking quality-being random in topic and personal detail. There is reason for this of course; you can't be ashamed of what you haven't told people. Sometimes it's what you're not telling people that's the bigger story.
In truth, I've been scared to death to come out as diagnosed with a Mood Disorder and PTSD. Which, in contrast to the other things I've blogged about on here, is utterly ridiculous. To think about all that I have commented on here: sex toys, abusive mothers, body image issues, etc- and to not acknowledge my own mental illness is just silly. Sillyness I tell you! There is a stigma surrounding mental illness-due largely in to misinformation about it. Don't get me wrong, One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest is a great movie and I really dig Jack Nicholason, but that's not exactly how it goes down in real life.
I, for one, have been sucked right into that stigma. Oddly enough I can talk about some of the most painful things I have endured in my lifetime, yet I have not been able to muster the courage to confess my diagnosis. I mean, it's not the plague for Christ's sake, but since I've learning of my disorder my life has changed and I have hidden it from others because I've been afraid of the reaction-plain and simple. I wasn't able to hide it from my employer, in part I think because I suffered a slight meltdown at work one day shortly after hearing some very stressful news about my mother:
Scene: me: on the floor, head in hands, tears and snot rolling down my face
coworker: calmly talking me through worst day of my life whilst handing me endless kleenex
employer: walking into room, with genuine concern and fear on confusion on face
(all of the above taking place in staff lunch room.)
I was able to finally catch my breath and wipe the snot off of my face. I got up off the damn floor and assured everyone around me that yes, I would be alright I was just having a 'bad day'. What a bunch of horse shit. I was ashamed, humiliated, and embarrassed for my actions. Worse, I thought with absolute certainty that my job was in real danger. Luckily, my coworkers and management thought otherwise and my lunch room antics were forgotten about before the end of the day. *Sigh*. I guess we've all had our 'bad days'. But I couldn't cope this time. I couldn't pull myself through it like I had managed to before. I couldn't put on my fake smile and nod my head in time with the others like I once could. This episode at work was proof enough to me that I was dealing with more than depression and that I was in over my head. This time is was worse than anything I'd ever danced with before. No, this dancing partner was not going to let go-and that's a very scary place to be.
So I drove myself to the medical clinic and asked for help. I went back on my antidepressants and unloaded all of the unnecessary stresses in my life.I started seeing a counsellor there, and was referred to a psychiatrist. I was able to meet with the counsellor twice a month which may not sound like much but for me it was
