I’ve always found it interesting how people speak about mental health.
“I have anxiety.”
Or,
“I suffer from depression.”
The word choice makes it clear that the mental illness is just that– an illness. And yet, when I talk about my mental health, it’s not an illness– it’s an identity.
“I am bipolar.”
It is both a noun, and an adjective. So how do we separate the two? How do we distinguish the disease from the self?
Growing up, when I began taking medication for my bipolar disorder, my mom often reminded me that mental health should be treated the same as physical health. If someone has a heart condition that requires medication to keep their heart beating, or if someone has diabetes and needs insulin shots every day, no one questions it. So why should we question a person’s choice to take medication to keep their mind healthy?
There’s a stigma surrounding mental health, one that is only recently beginning to break down, that insinuates mental illnesses are the result of weakness. Therefore, if you take medication to help with your mental health, it is proof that you were too weak to handle it on your own. I’ve only recently come to terms with the fact that the chemicals in my brain are responsible for my bipolar disorder, not my lack of mental and emotional strength. But with this stigma still permeating most of our culture, it is difficult to share this part of my life with others.
While physical and mental health should be treated the same, there is no denying that mental health can have more of an effect on your personality and emotions. My whole life I had been a passionate, energetic, extroverted person. But when I was diagnosed in high school, I started to question how much of that energy and extroversion was me and how much of it was my disease. This question began to pervade my whole life. Every time I was excited, I worried it was just mania. Every time I was sad, I wondered if it was just my bipolar telling me to be. Now that my medication has mitigated bipolar’s hold on me, I am beginning to recognize those passionate parts of me that are really me. I can identify when I am sad because I have a real reason to be.
But my disease has not disappeared. I am not perfect. Sometimes I find myself sinking into an irrational darkness. Every now and then I find myself lying awake at night, thoughts sprinting through my mind, my breath becoming shallow, my heart racing. So while I am not defined by my disease, it is definitely a part of me. And because of this, I still have a hard time deciding when to disclose this pertinent part of myself to others. How long do I have to be friends with someone before I share this? I worry endlessly whenever I start a new romantic relationship. If I tell them too soon, they might panic and run. If I tell them too late, they might feel betrayed or lied to. I am constantly hovering on this tightrope between divulging my truth and protecting myself.
So no, my bipolar disorder does not define me. I am not beholden to its evils, nor dragged down by its endless weight. I am so much more than a chemical imbalance. But is it a part of me? Absolutely. It is not my identity. But maybe it’s a part of it.
By: Cianna Allen