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“But you’re not that bipolar though…”

Color me surprised — or not. I’m not the first nor the last to hear those words from a loved one or an acquaintance. Mental illness is sorely misunderstood and even the most well-meaning individuals struggle to grasp the nuances of living with a cantankerous brain. Those lucky enough to be born neurotypical have a hard time wrapping their heads around the concept of an ever-present saboteur residing within one’s own mind. And to be fair, they need not understand it — not until someone they care about comes out as mentally ill. Then they discover that, much like ogres and onions, mental illness has layers.

There are those of us who can never hope to function effectively, not even with life-long clinical interventions. Some sufferers don’t respond well to medication or therapy — and so they join the unseen crowd of neurological misfits gathered on the edge of society, looking in with the bewilderment of children awestruck by the adults’ supposed omnipotence. In comparison, “normal” people seem to have superpowers: what do you mean, you can “keep a job” and “shop for groceries”? And don’t make the mistake of thinking mental illness is the only cross these poor dysfunctional souls have to bear. No, they experience the full spectrum of life’s shitty chocolates — from the death of loved ones to divorce to abuse to bankruptcy — just like you.

Life’s big and little fuck-yous pile on top of the daily emotional hell, like a sick game of existential Jenga

Digging in further, others are tragically or blissfully unaware of their condition, blind to the specter of what could have been. They don’t know they are sick because they have not received help, or because their illness makes it impossible for them to understand or accept their diagnosis. The story of Linda Bishop comes to mind: a woman so averse to her diagnosis and subsequent treatment, she ended up dying from starvation in a forgotten farmhouse, after abandoning her teenage daughter and society as a whole. Whether it’s ignorance, denial, or biology, some of us are “totally fiiiine” in our own little carefully constructed worlds. I used to belong to this group until I found out I had bipolar disorder (type 1) at the ripe age of 34.

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Then, there is a third type of mentally ill people — the one with the coveted “high-functioning” label, which I can now claim with a mixture of gratitude and despair. The gratitude part is obvious, but the despair is less so. It comes from the heartbreaking realization that despite the daily effort, despite the expensive meds and therapy, despite the all-absorbing desire to belong, I will never join the ranks of the neurotypicals… yet I still will have to adhere to the expectations of their world. The pain of losing the identity I had until my diagnosis is still raggedly raw after a year and a half of chasing recovery. I went from a quirky, passionate, unpredictable girl who was one masterclass away from greatness to an “oh, god, everything makes sense now. I have no idea who I am and I need help.”

The bursting seams of my psyche are invisible to all except those closest to me

I “pass,” but the symptoms are still there, albeit muted by the seven daily colorful pills and the haphazard meditation. “Probably just going to enjoy the weather and get some yard work done,” I say with a smile, leaving the office on Friday. Yes, I have a job — a great one — where keeping up appearances takes up most of my energy for the day. In reality, I’ll be catching up on work during the weekend, work I missed because I couldn’t stop crying in the drab office stairwell. I’ll be taking long showers while giving myself a pep talk through the tears, heartbroken about ignoring the husband and kids who are all too used to Mom needing her “alone time.” Or I may do something silly like buy a metric ton of leatherworking supplies because surely it will be my new forever hobby! (Hint: it wasn’t.)

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It’s a purgatory of sorts. I’m not well enough to join the ranks of the “normal,” yet I don’t quite fit in with my fellow bipolar sufferers whose life centers around hospitalizations and filing for disability. There is a distinct shame in being “better” without having done anything to deserve such a privilege. I so badly wish I could share some of whatever made me high-functioning with those in the throes of severe bipolar symptoms — if only I knew what the hell it was. Sometimes this human suit is suffocating and I want out, but discussing my own suicidal urges and almost-attempts seems positively callous when I hear of someone’s fourth 5150 hold.

So I shut up and I listen, locking my own inner turmoil into a “Glass Will Be Broken In an Emergency Whether You Like It or Not” box

My life is a Potemkin village — a facade of brilliance and order, held together by the desperate fear that losing one shingle can bring the whole illusion down with the deafening roar of madness. Will not going to work trigger depression? Will staying up late to have sex with my husband trigger a manic episode? Can I just be for a few minutes without anxiety or rage overwhelming me? Did I just overshare with my coworkers, or was it just normal “girl talk?” Will there be a moment for me to sneak my meds during business lunch? Shit, did I really order all this Amazon crap!? There is a constant and significant expenditure of energy dedicated to sustaining the image of “not that bipolar.”

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It is comforting to know there is an explanation for the mood swings that debilitated my relationships, for the ridiculous overspending that ruined my credit, for the hypersexuality that terrified me in college and resulted in my failed first marriage. My personality is not “poetically intense”. I’m not an overly hormonal woman prone to emotional outbursts. I’m not some unsocialized weirdo who daydreams whole new worlds instead of listening to the person before them. There is a reason why I have multiple domain names with half-started blogs and endless to-do lists with never-finished projects — and it’s not that I am a lazy, indecisive loser.

I am sick and I always have been

I was sick when I dangled my feet out of a ninth-story window as a child, feeling euphoric because the wind was speaking to me. I was sick when I stayed up all night writing hundreds of sheets of poetry as a teenager — night after night, after night. I was sick when I went from an involved straight-A student to a miserable, sniveling mess barely able to function while in college. I was sick when my newborn baby didn’t bring me the joy everyone said he should. I was sick when I suddenly couldn’t remember what I did half an hour ago, and I was definitely sick when I couldn’t shake the intrusive thought that a strange man was secretly living in our attic.

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Suddenly, the “high-functioning” part rears its smug head. “Maybe you remember it wrong,” it says, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe it was simply stress and a lack of discipline. People who are really mentally ill don’t have a job, a house, a family, friends, pets, plants… you always complain too much. You know you could solve your problems if you tried harder, so stop being weak!” The doubt rises like heartburn, threatening to dissolve the recovery framework laid out by my doctors. “Do you even need these meds? You’re fine, after all.” And there it is, a high-functioning bipolar’s biggest struggle — meds appear to be a crutch precisely when they work as intended.

I am still sick now and I always will be

Like it or not, it’s the truth. Symptoms may fade in and out, becoming barely noticeable when the right cocktail of meds is combined with intentional mindfulness and therapy breakthroughs. Add in the love and attention from a reliable support network, and everything can seem pretty damn normal. There is even a possibility, however slight, that ongoing research finds a successful non-pharmacological treatment within my lifetime. But until that happens, my brain will continue to be a fickle violin in need of some serious chemical tuning before it can join society’s deafening orchestra.

To those who decry Big Pharma, I say “Hold your pitchforks!” Bipolar disorder is a very complex illness: a trifecta of depression, mania, and anxiety that results in up to 50% of sufferers attempting suicide at least once. There is no amount of positive thinking, goat yoga, or aromatherapy that will disrupt a mixed episode — a disturbing Pollock-like whirlwind of mania and depression — and cure one’s intrusive thoughts about driving their car into the concrete barrier at 70 MPH. So don’t shame us for our pills any more than you would shame a diabetic for their insulin — saving lives is saving lives.