The Cure for Bipolar is to Forget You Are Bipolar
In 2015, I started a new job. My boss was a typical Australian guy, laidback, easy-going, and incredibly nice. In the first team meeting, he said:
“Lina, you are a genius, what do you think?”
I smiled politely and remained silent. I might be smart, but I know I am not a genius.
One month later, I realized he was not joking, he actually did believe I was a genius because I was smarter than most of my colleagues in that company. He trusted me with important work and I did not let him down.
He didn’t know, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was 25 and had spent years in denial:
… Study caused it — I stopped studying.
… Work caused it — I stopped working.
… Intense emotions caused it — I stopped emotional roller coasters.
… Other issues caused it — I stopped living in denial, after years of searching for causes and cures, missing out on great job opportunities and lovely boys, instead of living my life.
He didn’t know, he was the cure to my bipolar, for having believed in me more than I did, for having convinced me I could do my job just fine being bipolar.
A client from Queensland made me a special enclosure box with different screws, and customized tools to open the box. He did it because I told him I was bad with tools. He wanted to teach me how to use them. I was surprised by how much thought and time he put into this. He said:
“I was about to be stood down and 10% of my factory workers were about to be laid off if you did not help bring in the Italian specialists we needed for production.”
He didn’t know, I was passionate about the law and public policy, all I ever wanted to do was to help make a better system, make a difference in people’s lives. But I gave up my dream after I was diagnosed, as the study was becoming too stressful.
Those days, what kept me awake at night was Abraham Maslow who said, “What a man can be, he must be.” It’s about making a difference, not turning a few heads.
He didn’t know, he was the cure to my bipolar, for making me realize what I wanted was not to be bipolar-free, but to be able to do what I wanted to do.
Between two worlds, those who have no knowledge of me being bipolar and myself, the only thing that held me back was the belief that I could not live the life I wanted because I am bipolar, not being bipolar.
In 2019, the government decided to cancel my professional registration as I was deemed unfit to practice after I allegedly “threatened” Senator Nick McKim by email. My friend was wrongfully detained, he refused to help because he was busy with an upcoming election. But my track records did not start there.
I had problems at work. I stopped taking my medication because what’s the point? There was no job to go to in the morning. I flew to the Gold Coast without telling anyone. I was going to burn through my savings on booze, drugs, and boys. While I was making a scene at the Marriot hotel in Surfers Paradise, drunk and stoned in a $88 Marriot robe, removed by QLD police, my parents were reporting me as a missing person in Sydney with NSW police…
I broke up with my boyfriend. I stopped taking my medication because what’s the point? There was no boyfriend to come home to at night. I “published” an article on the bathroom walls in Apple store on George Street with a permanent marker, just to express my dissatisfaction about their abuse of workers in Foxconn City in Shenzhen, escorted out of there by the police, with a $440 fine for graffiti…
I received the notice from the government intending to cancel my registration. I stopped taking my medication because what’s the point? There was no career for me. I maxed out my credit card and gambled away ten grand in just one day at Club Central Hurstville. 2 hours after my arrival at the club, the ground floor smelt like a Tsingtao brewery as beer was spilled everywhere I went; upstairs looked like a Broadway dressing room instead of a yum cha restaurant — a navy blue jacket on table 1, a black leather bag on 2, a coral Dior lip gloss lying on the floor, and a rose gold Pandora snake chain bracelet by the window…
I wish the list stopped here…
The government said:
“You have a history of reckless behaviors.”
St George Hospital said:
“These are medical symptoms, they do not define who you are. We’ll get you help and you’ll improve.”
It took two psychiatrists from one public hospital and three emails to convince the government my registration should not be canceled.
It took two psychiatrists and one clinical psychologist from one public hospital, two additional psychiatrists from an outpatient community health center, and three months with a private psychiatrist, totaling at least thirty hours of talk therapy to convince me my registration should not be canceled.
Between two worlds, the authority and the doctors, I was fortunate enough to see myself through different eyes. I wouldn’t be who I am without the fatherly discipline and the motherly compassion.
Later that year, I was finally able to calmly tell my boss I was bipolar and I needed time off work. He agreed of course.
He didn’t know, he was the cure to my bipolar, for giving me a reason to want to get the help I needed. Lithium is only a wonder drug if I take it. I’d only take it if I knew there was a job to go back to.
He didn’t know, he was the cure to my bipolar, for making me an asset instead of a liability to this community. If I didn’t have a job to go back to, I would probably end up living with my parents. I’d definitely lose my mind being stuck home, distancing myself from my friends and colleagues. My years of education and industry experience would go to waste. I would be so much worse off professionally and personally.
I know that because I was born and raised in China before I turned 18. There is a surplus of skilled professionals in China, it does not make sense financially for companies to wait for people with mental illnesses to recover, therefore, they lose jobs easily and become isolated. By comparison, there is a shortage of skilled professionals in Australia. Companies are financially better off waiting for their employees to recover than to recruit new ones.
Between two worlds, China and Australia, I got lucky. Scarcity worked in my favour.
Success at work changed the way my Chinese families and friends see me.
My mom asked me:
“Why do white people like you so much?”
“Because white people like people who are smart and hardworking.”
“They think you are smart? But you didn’t even finish your master’s degree.”
“White people don’t use a piece of paper to measure how smart you are.”
“What do they use then?”
“By evaluating my work performance.”
In China, there are too many people. It’s impossible for companies to interview everyone. They have to set entry requirements to be selective, therefore, proper qualifications such as a master’s degree become a must-have if people want to work for reputable companies. This creates the impression that only people with advanced degrees are smart.
My Chinese friends who had better qualifications than me noticed I was connected to a few executives of big companies.
“How did you become friends with them?”
“My boss introduced me to them, they are my clients.”
In China, opportunities are given to males before females. Because companies assume girls my age would soon get married, give birth to children, and prioritize their families instead of work. Women still assume the traditional role of a housewife in today’s society.
Between two worlds, white people and Chinese, I know their opinion about me is not a reflection of who I am, but who they are.
We were 15, he copied my answers for the English test, I copied his answers for the math test, we both aced the tests.
Our teacher walked towards us, we heard her high heels click-clack down the corridor, pretending to read a book.
“You two, help each other with your complementary skills.”
We looked at each other and smiled, with relief.
We were 22, we ran into our teacher on the street after we had just flown back from Sydney.
“Why are you two still not married?”
We grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same school, and lived 10 minutes away. Everyone back home assumed we were going to marry after we graduated.
We looked at each other and smiled, with mystery.
We married right after we graduated like everyone assumed, without telling anyone.
“You are divorcing me over some stupid job?”
“It’s a job that pays a quarter million a year.”
“You are divorcing me over a job that pays a quarter million a year, one that you can get anywhere?”
“I’m asking you to come with me.”
“Knowing I will say no.”
“Hoping you will consider.”
“I considered. No.”
“Why not?”
“You have to ask?”
“You can write in Chinese.”
“Name one Chinese writer who’s bipolar.”
“You can study law in China.”
“Name one Chinese lawyer who’s bipolar.”
“I can take care of you.”
“Become a housewife like our grandmothers and mothers? Are you high on drugs?”
He blamed his incompetent English for his lack of a career in Australia, knowing his Chinese was equally poor. He’s only fluent in math and computers. He’s offered a job as an algorithm engineer, which only required fluency in math and computers.
I blamed China’s social stigma on mental illnesses and the ineffective legal system in challenging involuntary detentions in psychiatric facilities for not going back, knowing I’d say the same about Australia. Crazy is crazy, whether other people judge you or not. Detention is detention, whether you can challenge it or not.
7 years later, he still uses the photo I took for him for all of his social accounts. He is still single.
7 years later, I still have nothing better to do than write a blog every night. I’m still terrified of being alone.
Between two worlds, my ex-husband’s and mine, he’s socially awkward, I’m mentally ill. There’s no escaping from the core of who we are.
There are times when I wish I were Evan from The Butterfly Effect, traveling back in time to change the past, and see what possible outcomes there would be before I settle on a final outcome.
What if I didn’t come to Australia to study?
What if I went back to China with my ex-husband?
What if I worked for a different company?
What if I lived in another suburb and saw doctors who cared less?
Every morning I wake up with an impulse to flip a coin to decide if I want to be cured.
If cured, I could have a stable and fulfilling life, a rewarding career, a blessing relationship, and I could be in a much better shape health-wise.
And I’d probably keep wondering, thinking about the life I would have, could have, should have, and will not have…
If not cured, I could be riding an unpredictable roller coaster of mood swings and have more clarity on a lot of things constantly. I could be alone, could be in prison, could be struggling financially on a daily basis.
And I’d probably keep wondering, thinking about the life I would have, could have, should have, and will not have…
Welcome to the club of adulthood. Every day special is tough choices — not always so black and white, too many grey areas, variable outcomes, unfading regrets…
Between two worlds, one that with a cure and one that is without a cure for bipolar, I have no idea what the future holds for me. After all, tomorrow is another day.
