It was an unexpected relief when Lena Dunham, creator of TV show Girls, posted on Instagram recently about women who live with mental illness.

Such women are rarely referred to in popular culture at all, Dunham pointed out, and when they are, it's in the form of tropes like: "A messy bar patron with a bad bleach job."

"I've been noticing that nearly every pop cultural image we see of a woman on psychiatric medication is that of an out-of-control, exhausting and exhausted girl who needs help," wrote Dunham, who herself lives with obsessive-compulsive disorder.

I've noticed this too. As someone who lives with mental illness, it's discouraging to see women who are actually taking control of their recovery being dismissed as "crazy".

In the popular TV series Homeland, protagonist Carrie, who has a bipolar diagnosis (a diagnosis I share) is characterised through the tropes of dysfunction and unpredictability.

This is a problem because, as Meron Wondemaghen, a University of New England lecturer in criminology writes: "These depictions can have negative effects on public perception."

It can deter people from speaking up about their illness.

There are many other examples of women who take medication being depicted as dangerous.

One of the most offensive is a gag in Ricky Gervais' Extras: "She'll forget to take her lithium and kill me."

Dunham's comments are spot on because the realities of managing an illness are hidden from public view, yet incredibly common.

In Australia, according to ABS figures, 45.5 per cent of people experience mental illness at some point. While some experience quick symptom relief, many others require ongoing management.

Mental illness is among the most common causes of disability.

Women who take their meds and manage their health long-term, says Dunham, "have been brave enough to help themselves. It's important that we see normalising portrayals of people, women, choosing to take action when it comes to their mental health".

It's important because for all this time, the positive, transformative effects of recovery from mental illness have been completely ignored.

But there's life after a crisis point for many people with chronic disorders. There's life after dramatic breakdowns and doctor visits. And in that space in between "sick" and "well", albeit often behind closed doors, transformation can be found on both an individual and social level.

Characterising these women as "unhinged" misses the valuable opportunity to make their insights, gleaned from suffering, a positive force for change.

Lena Dunham's January 2016 Instagram post on women's mental illness stigma. ( Instagram: Lena Dunham )

Treating mental illness as a detour, not a destination

Mental illness blankets swathes of my life, but I was encouraged by many of the clinicians I've seen over the years to think of it as more of a detour than a destination.

My life's path was headed in a particular direction (uni, career, good relationships, etc.) and I was encouraged not to think of my illness as a part of my identity. It was an aberration which taking my meds could mostly fix.

I was comfortable with this formulation. Who wants to be "the bipolar girl"? Who wants to deal with stretches of disruptive episodes forever?

I didn't talk to other people about my problems with basic functioning, I dismissed my emotions as brain imbalances that meant nothing but a need for chemistry.

It's true that I am not, nor was I ever, my diagnosis. And indeed, medications have helped me a great deal. But I want to use my fledging wellness to give justice to the potential power my experiences hold or feel shame about what happened to me.

What I went through says something worth drawing attention to.

Recent research emerging from Sydney University showed that for young mental health patients, finding wellbeing after a crisis involves more than simply addressing the symptoms.

Even in the presence of a chronic mental illness, it's important for patients to build a sense of self, supportive relationships, have a sense of the future, and a sense of agency.

Ideally, mental illness can be an opportunity to address a range of fundamental aspects to life.

Not many people examine their life so carefully, especially as young adults, but being compelled to make this examination could give illness a significant purpose that goes far beyond pop cultural stereotypes of what people with chronic illness are capable of.

My illness was not a detour meant to hide in silence. For one thing, I couldn't hope to get back on my original, pre-symptomatic track.

Like the 75 per cent of people for whom chronic mental illness emerges before the age of 25, I have no "before" to return to. Instead, my illness compelled me to find the adult self, who, to echo Dunham's sentiments, I hadn't met yet.

And meeting myself in the context of recovery was actually a valuable opportunity. Mental illness has given me an impetus to think carefully about living a good life because I was subjected early to thoughts of not wanting to live. It made me sensitive to my needs and priorities because I knew I had limits on the energy and stress I could expend.

People in recovery should not be stigmatised because of the personal positive bounds it entails.

How mental illness can change the world

In Sad Girl Theory, artist Audrey Wollen posits that young women's misery "should be recognised as an act of resistance". ( Instagram: Audrey Wollen )

The momentum of recovery also has the potential to influence social change.

Sad Girl Theory, as articulated by Instagram artist Audrey Wollen, posits that young women's misery "should be recognised as an act of resistance". It's okay to be sad in a world where the subordination of women is pervasive, Wollen argues.

If pain has political dimensions, its depictions on social media can be a protest. "Our pain doesn't need to be discarded in the name of empowerment," she said.

For women living with mental illness, they don't need to see themselves as broken, or a victim, they can see their pain in a wider context.

Similarly, Johanna Hedva's Sick Woman Theory assumes that the person who is ill is not at fault or a singular, messy burden on society. Instead, they are people entitled to care, care that — despite lifelong prevalence of chronic illness — can be very hard to find.

Hedva calls for greater collective action towards eradicating the stigma that demonises the sick and those in recovery, and for more support on a communal level.

Finding a path toward recovery offers the opportunity to understand the ubiquity of distress. Here, your suffering is not just your own, it is a shared experience which, powerfully, can point to a more compassionate way forward.

It sounds grand, but recovery is ordinary life. Every day, every step, every breath, every swallow of prescribed pills, is simultaneously a renewal and the act of getting on with things.

It is not about being the exhausted girl who needs help. It is, as Dunham says, women being "brave enough to help themselves".

It happens constantly and doesn't look nearly as amazing as it is.