It rained today. Hard, pounding raindrops came down in sheets and I remember the bitter hatred I have towards this type of weather. How frustrated I get with the wetness, the dreary clouds that hang around until the storm finally passes. And then I realize – that’s the takeaway.
With my form of bipolar illness, I lean towards mania, rather than depression. Three or four nights off meds and with poor sleep and I’ll end up manic to the point of hallucinating, needing intravenous antipsychotics and a week in the mental hospital to return me to a semi-normal state. Then there are the weeks of recovery afterwards. I don’t dare mess with my treatment plan. It’s as much a part of my life as breathing and eating. It keeps me in the middle and for me, that is a beautiful place to be, especially with a household to run with two little ones looking up to me and counting on me to stay healthy.
But the rain. It’s still coming down, relentlessly soaking everything without a roof over its head. Rainy days can so easily take me back to the year of my life when I was so smothered by depression that I contemplated ending my own life to make the pain stop. I had been diagnosed a few months earlier with Bipolar Disorder Type 1, had to resign from a career I had worked so hard at, and was afraid the confidence that used to sparkle in my eyes would never return. I felt so far gone. I couldn’t see an end to the stormy fog I was living in.
The hardest part about the year I was being suffocated by depression was that I didn’t have people to look up to. People who had been in the dark, murky trenches of mental illness and yet had emerged stronger and more equipped to keep going. Because when one is diagnosed with a mental illness it never goes away, we must find a way to live with it and manage it so that it doesn’t manage us.
I recognized my suicidal thoughts, was absolutely terrified by them, and although I was ashamed by these feelings I was experiencing, somehow found the courage to tell my husband and parents and my psychiatrist who then changed my medications. Within a few weeks I started to feel better, the thoughts began to fade, and I was able to lift my head above the fog. I chose not to end my story, and because I was able to get help and support, I am here today advocating for mental health awareness through my blog and my show, This Is My Brave.
These conversations don’t have to be hard. The more we open up and talk about mental illness, the more people will realize that it’s an illness like any other and that with proper treatment and support, anyone can overcome mental illness to lead happy, successful lives. The more we share, the more we encourage others to be vulnerable, and this ripple effect is the change that the mental health community needs to break down the ignorance that surrounds societal views on mental illness.
We are human. We live with mental illness and we want to be heard. We can persevere because our stories matter.