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What I Wish I Knew Before Telling People I Have Bipolar
On exactly what stigma is
Four years ago, I was diagnosed with bipolar 1.
It all started with my manic episode over 12 months into the pandemic. My six kids (plus one foster daughter) had not been to “in-person” school for more than a year — and our house had nearly burned down in the CZU Lightning Complex fires. To put it mildly, I’d been stressed.
My brain finally broke. For reasons I cannot explain, I decided to disrobe and sit naked in our front garden. Staring at the sun euphorically, I convinced myself I was Mitochondrial Eve — the 100,000-year-old, most recent common female ancestor of all living humans. I woke up in the hospital to my husband giving me orange juice and meds. My hands were restrained to the corners of the bed.
The words mania into psychosis and bipolar disorder entered the chat. But a year passed before I came to terms with it enough to share that information widely.
A breakdown in real time is impossible to diarize. I don’t regret waiting to write about my manic episode. As far as mental illness is concerned, one thing was clear before my diagnosis—once someone admits they have a serious mental illness, the fear and mistrust from even their closest loved ones feels…
