mental illness

Mental illness is hard. Being a person is hard. Don’t try to do it alone.

A couple of years ago I asked my therapist if she thought my inability to separate things and the memories associated with those things was some kind of coping mechanism. The same way the smell of a Jose Cuervo tequila makes me panic, does a shawl make me calm.

I wish I could say that every mistake I’ve made, every lousy decision, is all a manifestation of my faulty brain chemistry and mental illness.

We loved her. She knew. May the Force be with her.

Anxiety disorders — PTSD, OCD, and Panic Disorder, to name a few — are the most common mental illnesses in the United States, with about 18% of the population struggling with one. No one wants to be put on blast for their weaknesses or wiring issues. I just wish there was a way to better understand the silent majority — the people who suffer every day.

It’s a strange day to be writing about how my mental illnesses have made my life better.

I’m a person who needs to know the facts. I bring a notebook with me to every doctor’s appointment. I record important meetings. The research list for my memoir is pages long. Why should pregnancy be any different? And so the research began.

In early adulthood, the bipolar disorder that was my genetic destiny was pushed around — shuffled from doctor to doctor, city to city, misdiagnosis to misdiagnosis. Deeply distressed, consumed by sadness after the birth of my first child, they called it “postpartum depression.” If I had manic energy, they called it “drive” or “passion” or “dedication.” Snap decisions, irresponsible, risky, promiscuous behavior — it was just “life learning.” I never finished anything I started, something always got in the way.