+ I Don’t Thank My Bipolar for Anything, Not a Single Thing (6 minute read)

May is Mental Health Awareness Month and I love reading all of the narratives that are swirling about social media. There are so many different voices, different identities, and different experiences that are amplified and every single one of these perspectives matter. When there are more storytellers, there is less stigma. For someone living with a mental illness it is heartening to read and watch these accounts of what life is like living, struggling, and succeeding with a mental illness and how this isn’t a linear adventure. These stories are familiar and I see aspects of my own experiences embedded in so many of these journeys, but I still need to tell my own story using my own words.

Hi, I’m Rachel. I don’t thank my bipolar. For anything. Not a single thing.

Many mental health narratives hash out how illness can make one stronger, how in a way illness is a gift because it can increase one’s capacity for compassion, or how mental illness has provided a profound sense of purpose when it comes to educational and professional goals. How illness makes us better. I think these perspectives are incredibly important, but nuh-uh that ain’t me.

This is me: living with bipolar disorder is the worst! As I’ve learned how to best manage my mental illness and practice self-care, life has gotten much more predictable and a bunch easier, but things are undoubtedly harder living with a partially busted brain. I’m lucky that medication and therapy work really well for me, but even then bipolar disorder blows major chunks. This isn’t about pity mongering; this is about the truth that bipolar disorder sucks serious nards. That’s my anthem — this illness fucking sucks, but I don’t.

If I could take a pill that would cure me, I would snatch it right out of your hand and swallow it dry. Because my bipolar disorder doesn’t make me special, it makes my life complicated. My bipolar disorder doesn’t make me brave. It’s not the source of my strength. It lingers under the surface of my consciousness, wheedling into my brain and poisoning how I feel about myself and how I experience the world. I’m special, brave, strong, and talented without my illness. Bipolar disorder isn’t a trial that I need to tackle in order to show the world I’m tough enough. I don’t need an illness to exaggerate my awesomeness. With an illness that mimics identity it can be hard to tell where bipolar ends and I begin — the boundaries are never that distinct — but my bipolar disorder isn’t a badge. It’s a label, a diagnosis, a hefty, troublesome detail. My bipolar doesn’t get to take a bow.

As I mentioned, many mental health narratives tip their hat to illness, considering disorder to be a catalyst for strength, which brings us to the question of the hour — has my bipolar disorder made me stronger? Do I wear it at a jaunty angle? Well, yes — because pushing through adversity always makes someone stronger. Surviving and thriving under the weight of adversity encourages and expands upon one’s capacity for resilience. It can make you see life in a new light. But I’d like to think that I would be a compassionate and well-rounded human being even if I didn’t have a mental illness. Mental illness isn’t my identity, it’s not a shiny accessory, it’s something I have that I hate. It’s my kryptonite, it’s not a superpower. I’d give it away in a hot second and I think what would remain would still be a strong, successful woman. I am not thankful for my mental illness because it does me more harm than good. I don’t want to give it any props. No accolades, no applause, no misty eyed celebratory speeches. I understand that most mental health narratives aren’t celebrating illness, they’re celebrating the self, but I’m always concerned when these stories seem to channel the unhealthy idea that potential is defined by disease — i.e. our perception of our bipolar poster boy Van Gogh and the role his illness played in “inspiring” his genius.

Van Gogh was a masterful artist who was thought to have bipolar disorder. He was also a whiny jag off with a taste for lead paint and absinthe (click to read more). For complete transparency I am very whiny too — however I prefer medical marijuana over licking my lead tainted walls — and I’d like to think that I’m a talented writer. According to the goals I’ve set for myself in regards to accruing followers and publishing pieces, I’m definitely tapping into my potential. Not only is writing something I’m good at, but being a writer is an integral component of my identity. But something that is not lost on me is that the bulk of my writing focuses on sharing my life with bipolar disorder (you’re probably already aware of this considering you’re reading this post — PS thanks for that!). Van Gogh is to brush strokes as I am to key clicking (and yes I realize I’m comparing my talents to Van Gogh but I’m having a great self esteem day so leave me alone). Writing is an outlet, it keeps me healthy, it gives me power, but if I had to choose between illness and outlet — I wish I had nothing to write about! I’m just kidding, I know I’d still write about other things. For instance, I could finally finish my screenplay “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Weevil” about a young beetle with a passion for investigative reporting and laying larvae in Spanish moss. Anyway, my bipolar disorder doesn’t make me a better writer, I just write about it because it’s a part of my life that I need to process. CliffsNotes — being a writer is part of my identity, having bipolar is not.

But here’s the thing — the reality is that my bipolar is not going away. I’m completely aware that it’s a chronic illness that I’ll always have to live with and manage. It’s a perpetual up and down, side to side, too high or too low. It’s all about pushing past the rough times and dedicating my life to the pursuit of balance. I’ve had to learn how to take care of myself which means understanding my illness, finding the language to talk about it, and figuring out how to achieve my goals despite my shitty brain chemistry. That’s been a significant part of my journey and I’ll always have these challenges. I cope by doing everything in my power to de-glamorize my illness, to take it out of the spotlight, to value myself by focusing on my accomplishments not as someone with bipolar but as the kick ass bitch that I am. Disorder takes a back seat.

I think many mental health narratives embrace life with an illness because it’s a great way to cope. Your illness isn’t going anywhere. It’s a roommate you can’t evict so you learn to live around it. You just have to make it work and hope that your roomie doesn’t light your house on fire. Acceptance is an essential step towards ownership of illness. And as I read the stories of others living with mental illness during Mental Health Awareness Month, I appreciate their honesty and their passion. We need to raise our voices and share who we are, talk about what we go through. If we all keep talking about mental illness, stigma doesn’t stand a chance.

Here’s my own story using my own words:

Hi, I’m Rachel. I don’t thank my bipolar. For anything. Not a single thing. I acknowledge my illness, I understand it, I make my peace, but I don’t give my bipolar any credit. That belongs to me. With or without it I’m fabulous.

And my mental illness can go fuck itself.

+ Instability in Six Colors (3 minute read)

When I’m manic, the world feels so unbelievably beautiful and shattered. And there is just such sobering, overpowering ecstasy in this awe-cracked brokenness that I can’t help but feel it throbbing in my bones.

The sadness settles in the cradle of my heart, as I’m the only one charged with saving this beautiful, broken, melancholic bundle that leaves scorch marks in my chest. I cannot sleep because I have to stand guard all night. I am the lonely, lovely, littered watchtower.

I smile and I cry and I collapse and I laugh myself back into beautiful space. I’m b u r s t i n g with bright colors and sweet agony. I am brilliant and tortured. I’m too bright to burn out.

It feels like a hypnotic ultraviolet jellyfish has curled inside me. I’m warmed and distracted with its beautiful electricity as she wraps her stinging fingers around my soft lungs and a heart that is eager to feel a jolt that brings me back to life. I can smell the singed skin.

On nights like these, I turn off the lights and watch two videos from my childhood. The Snowman is a short video based off a book written by a man whose wife had schizophrenia - a crazy girl just like me. But the video has no words, just pencil drawn landscapes, skies, and the rolling ocean. It stars a little boy who builds a snowman, loves him into life, and then loses him to the sun.

There is one song sung by a choir boy, who, growing up, I thought was a girl like me, and the lyrics that are seared forever in my mind cry to me, “We’re walking in the air. We’re floating in the moonlit sky. The people far below are sleeping as we fly. I’m holding very tight, I’m riding in the midnight blue. I’m finding I can fly so high above with you.”

And I can’t stop watching this video, and I can’t stop crying over the sheer splendor of this story. Loving and losing and escaping into the sky as people rest peacefully beneath you - and I cry so hard with such indulgence that my chest aches. This is my story, too. Little me learned that sometimes sadness can bring immeasurable beauty with its sorrow.

I watch a scene from Dumbo again and again and again because I cry so hard I think I feel God. His mother is locked up, shackles on her feet, but she weaves her trunk through prison bars and cradles her son. The bittersweet lullaby plays as she rocks Dumbo, “Baby mine, don’t you cry, baby mine, dry your eyes, rest your head close to my heart, never to part, baby of mine,” and I cry with my entire body.

And it feels so sumptuously beautiful that I start to die.

I stare at the screen and wipe the tears from my neck and I clasp my hands as my head pounds with violent angel wings, “May God break my heart so completely that the whole world falls in!” From the lips of Mother Teresa’s passed on to mine to echo in God’s ear.

All this rapture rips me right open. I just can’t keep the k a l e i d o s c o p e in and I find markers and pens and I decorate my pale arms and soft stomach, my freckled face and long legs, and my pink chest that is absolutely pleading.

I’m covered in colors.

I turn into canvas.

I listen to sad lullabies and I think of this rickety world. And I am honored to hold such euphoria, since I am simply a crazy girl lost in divine light, even though this splendor makes me suffer.

I cry until the markers run, leaving diluted tentacles etched across my skin, and I sit on my kitchen floor feeling blessed with my burden. This grief makes me whole; it feels familiar in a way I deserve.

I sit and the tears pour out and I pull my knees to my chest because I’m exquisitely splintered and responsible for the entire world’s torment.

And I would sit and cry and make my colors run forever, but my husband says it is time to see the doctor.