I'm having a recurrence of bipolar depression.

I'm not having the flu. I'm not having mono. I'm not having to visit distant family members. I'm not doing any of the things I might have told people I was doing. I'm suffering from mental illness. It's a real and painful disease, and I get it treated the best I can. I see doctors. I take medicine. I am sick.

I decided that with this relapse, this instance, I am going to be honest. I'm going to put it in the open, and though I might suffer some misunderstanding and prejudice, it's worth it to me. One, I don't have to hide. I can take an entire layer of stress off of myself, not trying to think of excuses and reasons why I can't do things.

Two, I can help correct misconceptions and maybe educate some people. There is no reason I shouldn't be able to be who I am - even if that includes being sick.

I'm done with stigma and I'm done with shame.

And three, maybe I can help forge connections with others that might not realize they have this in common with me. This week I told my boyfriend's mom that I'm bipolar, and talked a bit about how it affects our lives. She said, "But you always seem so put together." And with that, I think she was relieved. She is depressed, and I believe she often blames herself. It was a bit of a "No kidding, me too" moment, and I felt that I helped her just by telling her that I'm sick, and while I wish I wasn't, that I'm ok with it. That it's not my fault.

I had a hard breakdown the other night. I'd been doing really well for a couple of months - new job, new house, feeling really happy for the first time in recent memory. The meds were working, I was coping with stress well, and I didn't feel sick. I felt normal, and had started to form the thoughts about what a normal life is like.

Then, upon coming back from a family vacation, the migraines started. As I lay in bed for hours each day, I didn't want to admit that they were probably as much a symptom as an affliction in themselves. But each day it's gotten harder, and now I can't deny it - the train is coming, and I'm on the tracks.

I made an appointment with my doctor, and then broke down in tears. This is a disease. It's not something I'm getting better from. It's something I will have to deal with for my entire life. There will be good times, but there will be harder times, too. I've learned to deal with them better, but "normal" for me may always be a transient state.

My boyfriend looked on as I broke down, and I tried to explain that living with me is like living with someone with any other chronic, potentially ternimal disease. It will be exhausting. It will be hard. And we will have to embrace the times when things are good, because we will never know what will happen tomorrow, if my chemical rollercoaster will stay on the track or go completely off the rails.

Now, I have to deal with work, explaining again the intermittent absences. Work is less forgiving, but they are required by law to deal with me. That part, I've gone through before, and it causes me no small amount of anxiety to deal with it again.

But my illness is what it is. I can't make it go away by will. And as unpleasant as it is, I am as entitled to my illness as any person who is sick. And I am no more to blame. And I will not feel shame.

Tags: Bipolar Depression

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