It’s Week 7 of the Blogger Idol Play-at-Home links. I have not participated every week, primarily
because no one would partner up with me for the interviews (yeah – that’s me,
the lousy uncoordinated kid who was always picked last for gym class). At any rate, this week the assignment was to write about a secret you have that your
readers don’t know about you yet. Blogger
Idol is asking for a lot from its contestants this week, and most contestants
are likely damning their bad luck that they don’t blog anonymously. This was
challenging for me only because I’m not a terribly private person. I don’t keep a lot secret because I believe
it’s incredibly important to share our stories.
Through sharing, we help others to feel less alone, more courageous, more
empathetic, and more self-accepting. Such are the aims of this post.
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“So, tell me about your bipolar disorder,” she said, sitting
there in her grey, swivel desk chair as I sat across from her in a plush, muted
green armchair. It was such a vague
question, and I simply didn’t know where to begin. How does one explain more than a decade of
manic-depression to her new psychiatrist?
“Well …” I began, “I was first diagnosed about fifteen years
ago. Initially, I was misdiagnosed with
clinical depression. I was then placed
on Prozac, which propelled me into a full manic episode.”
“Okay,” she nodded, while typing furiously away, attempting
to document and diagnose my life all within the frame of one fifty minute
session. It was a ludicrous practice in
my opinion – this trying to fit people into little, labeled boxes and treat
them as their illnesses, rather than individuals. “Well, what makes you say
that? What were your symptoms?”
“It was textbook mania,” I stated, expecting her to accept
my answer and move forward with her next inquiry.
“How do you mean?” she asked.
“The most classic, common textbook indicators of mania, you
know,” I replied, now silently praying please
move on, please move on, please move on.
“Such as?” she urged me.
“Well …” I began rather reluctantly, “I had trouble
sleeping. I had long bouts of insomnia. I
was a binge drinker – a rather severe one. I had ulcers and I was taken to detox.” She nodded her head, typing even more rapidly
as I continued speaking. Her physical
presence and non-verbal cues prompted me to continue citing my symptoms. “I
thought I was brilliant, sexy, and utterly indestructible. I skipped my courses, started failing, and convinced
myself I didn’t give a damn because I was better than everyone around me
anyway. I also lacked financial responsibility.
I was purchasing items I already owned, and then just passing them out
to my friends when I realized the error in duplicity.”
“Yes, yes,” she uttered, as though I were correctly
confirming the questions to some exam about manic warning signs, as opposed to
revealing shameful secrets of my past. I
acknowledged that I ought not feel this shame.
Does the asthmatic feel shame when he wheezes while running? Does the diabetic feel shame when her insulin
levels go off course? Likewise, this
information I now provided was akin to the arthritic suffering joint pain; my recklessness
was directly correlated to a chronic condition.
I had said enough already, hadn’t I? She must most certainly
be content with my admissions. Then she asked, “And?”
I said I was textbook manic.
I had accurately confirmed a host of symptoms that the scholarly psychiatric
world would most surely categorize as true to textbook mania. So, why was she yet prodding me? I’m sure she knew just what I wasn’t now
saying, and I couldn’t understand why she was so insistent that I spill all my
secrets. I’m manic depressive; I know my
illness and I know my symptoms, and I also know that she was never going to “save
me.” So, what was the point in saying it now?
“And … and I was highly promiscuous.” There was no one else in that room but the two
of us, but I wanted to hide my face in mortifying disgrace as I added this one
additional symptom to an already substantial list of perceived discrediting transgressions.
She then stopped typing and looked up at me, “Ah yes, you’re
correct. That is textbook mania.”
What had she made me say those words for? Was it merely to confirm what I had already
told her? I used those exact two words – textbook mania -- when she made her
initial inquiry. Was admitting to every
single symptom necessary simply to confirm that I too had a strong knowledge of
her medical field? Did she desire assurance
that I would provide her with my every confidence?
I couldn’t find the point in her making me say it. I was now married with two small
children. I was monogamous and faithful
to my spouse, and I had a strong support system surrounding me. I had informed my friends and family of all
my personal indications of mania. We already had a plan, and I couldn’t
understand how this admittance was critical to that plan. Perhaps she had me say this aloud so that I
could have acknowledged what should have next come from her mouth – instead of
this current frustration and silence.
She should have said that I shouldn’t be ashamed. She should have said that I am strong and
courageous and those manic symptoms don’t have to define me. She should have told me that they’re not
skeletons rattling around in my closet; rather, they’re true indicators of an
illness as so recorded in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental
Disorders. She should have told me that
I was never a slut; I was just sick. She
should have told me that it was important to acknowledge all my symptoms out
loud and that I should release the self-loathing associated with such words as
they simultaneously fall from my mouth.
She didn’t say any of this though. That’s why, despite the intense indignity I
felt in the small behavioral health office that day, I spill these secrets
now. I want to tell each and every one
of you what she failed to tell me then.
Your supposed shameful secrets are actually medical symptoms. You are not a failure or a disappointment;
you are not ignorant or irresponsible.
You are strong and you are brave; you are fighting a battle that cannot
be seen and is most often misunderstood.
Stop your self-loathing right
this very minute so that you can begin your healing. You are so much more than a set of textbook
symptoms, so believe in the brilliant shine of your resilient spirit.
