Being Bi-Polar (And Loving Oneself)

By Kelly West Bevan

My husband and I sat in a cramped office as I staved off a panic attack. My psychiatrist seemed hesitant to speak. He knew my concerns surrounding a serious mental health diagnosis; I knew he was wrestling with how to lessen the blow. I took a deep breath, wiped away the tears with the back of my hand and allayed his fears with a nod. I had finally pieced together the entirety of my symptoms over the years and I knew. So he laid it out there with four swift words,

You have bipolar disorder.

I should have been relieved. After six months of questions, I finally had my answer.

The prognosis made sense to my husband, my kids, my mother, my therapist — even to me, I guess. But it was a diagnosis I had been unwilling to consider until this very moment.

Now I knew what was causing the unpredictable moods, my ability to go from zero to pissed off in thirty seconds, the chaos in my head that woke me up at night in the middle of a to-do list. I had an explanation for why I couldn’t stay awake past noon, why three-hour naps were a necessity. But the guilt weighed heavily. No matter how unrealistic, I felt that as a former psychotherapist, I should have recognized the symptoms earlier, even though I had left that career over ten years ago. I could have avoided months of doctors’ appointments, and uncontrollable outbursts with my kids. The tears. The worry.

ESCAPING THE STIGMA

But the fear of the stigma that accompanies a bipolar diagnosis was even more paralyzing. The stereotype of those prone to manic episodes and long stretches of depression can be harsh. There is often judgment and suspicion and a great deal of apprehensiveness to be around us. There is the fear of the unknown — beliefs that we can be impulsive, irrational, and can’t hold down jobs. Yet this is not the case for most of us, and for all of us, our symptoms can be tamed or controlled with medication.

But then there is the process of finding the right medication. It often takes a while and the medication experimentation provides the evidence that stigma is born of. I felt catatonic, unable to form complete sentences, and I got lost in a Price Chopper parking lot on one. Another caused heart palpitations, I was suddenly overly loquacious and talked at mock speed about anything and everything. My inhibitions were non-existent, I had no filter and said exactly what I was thinking (not always an admirable quality). Just ask the basketball coach who experienced my frenzied diatribe about an obnoxious parent on the sideline from which he is probably still recovering. I left that one-way “conversation” embarrassed and praying others hadn’t witnessed me unraveling.

The next medication brought on severe mania and it was as if someone had discovered the magic formula for harnessing the energy of a toddler and wrapped it up in a nice capsule-shaped package. I functioned on four hours of sleep, completed weeklong to-do list within hours and I was exhilaratingly happy. Any longer on this med and I might have been found dancing in the streets.

Thankfully, I have found Lamictal. We’ve tweaked the dosage over the years to keep my symptoms at bay; yet, five years later I still experience the occasional bout of depression, panic attacks, and sleepless nights filled with the constant stream of self-doubt. This fall I had a setback, and retreated into the safety of my home for a couple of months canceling work trips and social engagements. I struggle to forgive myself for the memories my children will have of me at the height of symptoms. I berate myself for the victim I become at times when the symptoms take hold and nothing seems to subdue them. I have always prided myself on my ability to overcome even the most painful experiences and see them as motivation to become stronger and more resilient. They drive me to make something of myself and were why I became a psychotherapist. But that person existed nearly two decades ago, and at times I do not recognize the person I have become post-diagnosis.

The more I live with bipolar disease, the less I fear other’s perceptions about it. Yet, I’m still hesitant to share that I have a bipolar diagnosis. When I do, I often qualify it to let people know I’m OK. “It’s not the kind you see on T.V.,” I tell them. Or I explain that I have bipolar depression as if that will lessen their concern. “I experience more depression than mania.”

I am making strides every day to stop blaming myself for the invisible scars I’ve left on the hearts of my husband and children. I try not to explain away my symptoms to those I tell. My husband and I remind my children frequently of the mother I was before those six months in crisis and the mother I am now — less jaded, more social, non-explosive, more affectionate. And I realize the biggest stigma I have to overcome is my own. So, I’m working to embrace being bipolar, to accept it’s a part of who I am, what makes me, me. With every hurdle I overcome, every success I have, every friendship I make this becomes a little bit easier.

Kelly West Bevan is a freelance writer and former psychotherapist and school counselor who lives in the Berkshires of Massachusetts with her husband and three almost-grown children.