My mother was diagnosed with bipolar disorder shortly after I was born, and shortly after her grandfather, who she loved deeply, suddenly died. As an adult, I can make sense of it: I can reason that the combined effects of grief and pregnancy on her body did something to bring to light an illness that had been latent; but when she told me when I was a child, I thought maybe if I hadn’t come along, my mom wouldn’t be sick.
Bipolar disorder is highly heritable, and both of my parents have diagnoses. I’ve known this for most of my life and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t scare me.
It has taken years for me to push back against all of the ableist rhetoric that society has shoved into me. The thought that depression was something I could just push through if I tried harder. The idea that if I went on medication I would lose myself, I would change. The notion that if I went to therapy I was weak. That I couldn’t seek services because then it would be official, I’d be crazy, and what’s worse than that?
And frankly it’s all utter bullshit—but it took years to deprogram.
So here’s where I am now: Continue reading