In 2017, mental health advocate Sabine NLD Bittle took her first step in going public with her bipolar disorder diagnosis. This is an adaptation of the original article, which she first posted on the blog What She Said.
“Don’t do it,” they tell me. Their beautiful faces furrowed in concern. “Don’t go out there on a public platform and tell people the secret that you’ve been guarding for so long.”
Some of my friends and family are worried that people will think I’m a freak. They’re worried that it will hurt me to tell the truth about my mental illness, to go public about living with bipolar disorder. And you know what? They were kinda wrong about going public. But also kinda right to be concerned.
Because mental illness is still so severely stigmatised
And so widely misunderstood.
Asylums. Straightjackets. Electro-shock therapy. Skull drills. Bloodletting. Potions. Exorcisms. Isolation. Lobotomies. That’s how they used to treat us. Crazy. Freak. Weirdo. Lunatic. Demented. Insane. Psychotic. Mad. Mental. Psycho. That’s what they used to call us. Oh wait. They still do.
That’s why some of my nearest and dearest are worried. They’re worried that some people will turn their backs on me. That it will hurt my career. Because the world doesn’t understand. Not about crazy people.
But I am “crazy”
I have bipolar disorder. A mental disorder that used to be known as manic–depressive illness, and before that, manic–depressive psychosis, dual-form insanity, and circular insanity. Basically, whatever you choose to call it (bipolar, thanks), it means I’m mentally ill.
My kind of mental illness means that I’m flung from one intense emotion to another. From deeply dark, clutching, clawing, gnawing suicidal, utterly debilitating depression to delirious, maniacal, unpredictable, exhilarating highs. I have periods of stability and normal moods, but once I hit what we’ve personally come to call my ‘tilt switch’, I have no control. In either direction. My emotions run me. Sometimes they run me into the ground, sometimes they chase me into the stratosphere.
Be careful who you tell
One of the first pieces of advice my psychiatrist gave me on diagnosis was, “Be careful who you tell. They’ll treat you differently.”
That was over 20 years ago. And at first I was careful. Very, very careful. Only those closest to me knew. And only in slow, cautious increments. Admitting this new truth to my loved ones was deeply scary. But that truth was so often met with heart-achingly beautiful acceptance. Of course, sometimes it was met with a hopeful, “Can’t you just snap out of it?” Oh how I wish. Or sometimes even emphatic denial. “You can’t be bipolar.” They didn’t want me to be. Fuck. I didn’t want me to be.
But I am.
Going public with my bipolar disorder diagnosis
Over the years I’d started experimenting more and more with being open about my mental illness. First with friends … who actually loved me more for it. Then with people I work with … who actually admired me more for it. And later, with complete strangers.
It’s almost amusing to see how these strangers react. Some step away from you slightly, probably envisioning you appropriately sedated and drooling in a straightjacket. At the very least, they start scrutinising your every action and attribute absolutely everything you say and do to the disorder, much like men often attribute all women’s less-than-happy moods to a monthly cycle.
It is precisely because of these judgements that I decided to go public with my bipolar disorder diagnosis, that I finally started speaking out. I had to. Even if it meant potential clients would decide to pass me over for another writer, even if people I knew would start distancing themselves from me. Even if I had to start having some uncomfortable conversations. I owed it to others like me.
Because it’s time for people to see the human and not the disease
So here’s the thing: as someone with an “unseen disability”, I’ve independently run my own freelance writing business for over 15 years. I’ve made short films and ghostwritten books. I’ve created and sold art. I’ve been the sole soldier at my father’s side during his long struggle with cancer. I am still a light to my friends, a sister to my brothers, a daughter to my parents, a lover to my man, a mother to my fur babies.
As messed up as I can be is as together as I can be. As dark, as light. As much as I need my friends and family is just as much as they need me. Basically, I can be just as good and bad and ugly as the next human being. So treat me like one. People with bipolar disorder and other mental illnesses are exactly that: people.
Don’t judge us for living with a mental illness you probably don’t know all that much about.
And if you’re the one living with a mental illness … you’re a warrior! Just like the rest of us.
