This Could Be You – by Anonymous

There’s your first hint about what it means to live with a mental illness, in my case Bipolar disorder. Making my diagnosis public would be an embarrassment to my family, and revealing it might compromise my credibility at work and my life in the community. Living with mental illness often means living in hiding.

I have been ill as long as I can remember. As a child, my depression was so bad that sometimes I couldn’t wait for bedtime so the pain would go away. As a teenager, my depression translated into an eating disorder, and I battled anorexia and bulimia for five years. Throughout my adult life I climbed in and out of what I call my black hole.

If you haven’t suffered from depression—and I’m willing to bet many of you reading this have—it’s difficult to explain. Friends called me a drama queen and tried to cajole me out of it. But when you’re depressed, there’s no easy way out. Once you’ve suffered for years, climbing out of the black hole seems harder and harder. Life feels like a jail sentence and you can’t wait for parole. If you have something or someone to live for you may keep going, but even then suicide is unbelievably seductive. For me, thoughts of death were often the only peace I could find in the midst of darkness. As I’ve told my family though, it was like looking through a catalogue for a vacation I couldn’t afford—I dreamed about it, but would never go there.

But that’s not all there is to Bipolar disorder. The other side, mania (or for me, hypomania—a less intense type of mania), is wonderful while you’re in it. Your mind races, you have boundless energy and barely need to sleep. The whole world is your oyster. You’re bursting with confidence. You’re the cleverest, most attractive, funniest person in the world.

So what’s wrong with that? That’s the question I asked when I was manic. It’s like being on a completely natural high. That is, until your confidence leads you to take risks and be reckless beyond anything your normal self would believe. For me, that meant extreme sports (and I had my share of injuries), reckless driving and unsafe behaviour, like walking the trails by the river at 2 a.m.

In mania, sometimes the buzz gets so high that you can’t follow what you’re thinking. I heard voices arguing at the back of my mind, making it difficult to concentrate on what was happening in the real world. I pushed myself so hard at work (even though my family begged me to stop) that I would collapse.

Then I heard Robert Munsch on the radio. He was talking about his own mental illness, the risks he took, and the depression he suffered. His diagnosis was Bipolar I. I made a doctor’s appointment the next day. For once I was honest, rather than hiding my symptoms out of embarrassment. I saw a specialist, and received counselling and medication. It was a tough road, but I made it. 

I’m one of the lucky ones. Nothing I did had serious or permanent implications. I didn’t lose my job, max out my credit card, sell my house, alienate my family, or hurt myself or anyone else on the road. Most importantly, I didn’t commit suicide.

So if you’re one of those lucky people who’s never experienced a mental illness (or loved someone who has), remember that anyone around you could be suffering: the cashier at the grocery store, your child’s teacher, your plumber, or even your neighbour. I hope that one day we won’t need to hide, that mental illness will be as normal as diabetes, and that people who suffer will be seen as people, not problems. 

Brantford Mental Health Week 2012 Schedule of Events