My mental illness DOES define me (and maybe yours should, too)
It’s a popular saying: mental illness does NOT define you. I like the sentiment: it’s kind, and true to an extent. There is far more to my life (and yours) than our daily battles with our brains.
But here’s the thing. I have lived with depression, anxiety, and a nagging case of borderline bipolar disorder for my entire adult life. I recognize and accept now that they will never likely leave me — just ebb and flow along with the other tides of my life, like my relationships, my career, my beliefs, and my physical health.
In an era when we desperately need to remove the stigma around mental illness, I’ve realized that my own mental health is part of my identity. In fact, it’s an enormous part. I’ve learned not to be ashamed of it. I’ve learned to talk openly and honestly about it with anyone who would like to. And I’ve seen enormous benefits along the way.
For example:
1.) Some of the strongest bonds I’ve formed are through talking deeply and personally about mental health. Back when I tried to hide my depression from as many people as possible, my world kept getting smaller. I was afraid of how people would react to my condition, so I retreated.
When I finally started opening up about it, it was a life-changer. I’ve made more new friends in the last year than the last fifteen. I don’t feel as lonely as often anymore. And I couldn’t have done it without embracing my depression as part of my identity, and being vulnerable enough to share.
2.) I’m finding more fulfilling work that is better aligned with my needs. Let’s face it: I’m not really cut out for a traditional 8 to 5 job with performance reviews and travel. I did that, and it was the wrong route for my healthcare. Now, I am a freelance writer. I own a small podcast studio. I set my own hours for both gigs, and take days off when I need to. I’ve worked hard to get here, and have a long way to go — but I can see now that it’s viable for me to still be a provider, working on things that better align with my unique health conditions, and create more time and space to take care of myself.
An example: I tell my clients now about my mental health journey. I use their reactions to gauge whether they will be a good fit for me or not. I share my new professional mantra (“no more lonely work”) to explain how I need collaboration and laughter and interaction in my days, and that I don’t take assignments that will isolate me.
Most clients don’t balk. They are empathetic, understanding, and still eager to work with me on my terms. They learn very quickly that I still deliver things on time and am obsessive about quality.
But they also know the risks in advance. I had to take an entire year off from work to heal a few years ago. I could have to do that again one day. In this way — by embracing my mental health identity and sharing it with them openly and honestly — they become part of my team, not outsiders or simply employers or people to fear. When you have a mental illness, you need more safe people to confide in, not less. Build a team around you that know you and take care of you, especially in your work.
3.) My best work draws on my experiences, and those experiences include depression and anxiety and trauma. Writing about what I have been through is therapy. It’s connectivity. It’s a reflection of my new identity, and how I got here.
Of everything I have written in the last few years, I am most proud of my essay, “James Harden, the Houston Rockets, and my life with major depression.” It’s an intimate glimpse into what I have been through, and it was also the first time I “outed” myself to the entire Medium and social media world as depressed, struggling, and very, very afraid. After publishing it, I received many encouraging responses that helped me find and realize the power of my own voice. It changed me, and it changed what I work on in my personal time. Even the novel I am working on now is based in no small part around anxiety and fear.
3.) I’m taking better care of myself now that I accept my mental health as part of my identity. I stopped thinking of depression and anxiety and breakdowns as things that sometimes “happen” to me, and started viewing them as things I will live with for the rest of my life. Initially, that sounds depressing (who wants to look forward to a lifetime of depressive episodes?), but I’ve flipped the script. Because I accept that this is part of who I am and will always be, I’m more determined to work with my therapist and psychiatrist and family to get better at recognizing my triggers and feelings, manage my responses, and minimize the damage my illness causes.
Before, I just swallowed my pills and went to my therapy sessions and relished in the good times and waited dreadfully for the ball to drop. I felt like I occasionally became depressed, not suffered from a chronic, invisible illness. To me, the first is like a passing cold: the second is absolutely a matter of identity.
4.) I’ve learned to recognize and respect the positive outcomes of an otherwise terrible illness. Membership does have its benefits, it turns out. For example, there is a clear relationship between being creative and having a diagnosis of a mood disorder.
My wife, a teacher, is now drawing on her own experiences living and helping with my anxiety and depression (as well as our daughter’s) to start mentoring other teachers on how to recognize and deal with anxiety in the classroom.
New opportunities are opening up for me, too — to write for more publications, expand my audience and network, and possibly even speak at a few events. I’m not excited about depression; quite the contrary, it’s the thing I am most afraid of in my life. I am excited about the new doors that have opened since I’ve begun living my most authentic life. And that life started when I began self-identifying outwardly as depressed, anxious, and bipolar.
Naturally, your choice is your own. The beauty of identity and self-expression is that we are each unique, and each afforded the opportunity to craft our narratives in the ways we best see fit. I’m not suggesting that you let depression, anxiety, mood disorders, or other psychiatric illnesses be the sole definition of your life. I think that’s the intention behind the “mental illness does not define you” sentiment: to encourage you to not diminish your view of yourself to only your hardships. I agree with that.
But I would add that you don’t have to hide — and that perhaps better still, these illnesses can be claimed, owned, and put to powerful purpose. Connection alone can save lives — and if my outwardly identifying as depressed, anxious, and bipolar can help save just one, then finally all this wretched suffering was worth it.
