Mental illness symptoms are as cold and generic as inhumanly possible. “Depressed mood.” “Loss of energy or fatigue.” “Psychomotor retardation or agitation.” Ah, yes, those things. They sound like a bummer. Although, actually, they don’t. They sound like characteristics of a lab animal. And one of the pesky symptoms of depression is “easy to tear.” You know, you cry a lot. But everyone cries, so how bad could that possibly be?

One day I was in a pub eavesdropping on the girls deep in conversation next to me. They were chatting about bisexuals. They were commenting that they would never date a bisexual as really bisexuals were heterosexual that were just playing around with homosexuality and eventually they would “turn back” into heterosexuals. Well, I, being bisexual was a little insulted by this. I have not “turned” into anything. I simply am bisexual like they are simply gay. I realized though that it was lucky for me that I heard these girls talking because I could cross them off my list as I have no desire to date sanctimonious, self-righteous, ignorant women. And I also realized this: it’s their loss. I’m great. I only lost sanctimonious, self-righteous, ignorant women while they lost me. And the same is true of mental illness. When someone rejects you simply because of a medical illness that you didn’t ask for and over which you have no control, you are only losing someone ignorant while they are losing the amazing person that is you.

Bipolar is a disease that takes over your brain – well, parts of your brain anyway – and these affected parts of your brain change your psychology right along with them. So once when you felt “normal” or let’s say, average, you now feel utterly destroyed. Your emotions are altered thanks to the attack on your brain. And what’s worse about this is that bipolar or depression fundamentally changes who you think you are at that moment. If you used to be a fun-loving, happy-go-lucky sort, in a depression, nothing could be farther from the truth. When manic, all your thoughtful, careful ways become things of the past. You can barely identify with the person you were pre-mood. And perhaps even worse than all that is that some part of you sees this dissonance. You know that who you are at that moment isn’t who you really are. It’s like someone else, a crazy person, moved right into your head and body and coopted your life. Bipolar snatched your body and brain.

As I wrote last time, I consider about 95% of the time we spend feeling guilty wasted time. I have suggested that guilt does no one any good and instead of sitting around feeling guilty, we should try to make amends for whatever it is about which we feel guilty. But how does one make amends?

Stigma is something that can be seen outwardly like when a family member avoids you due to your depression or  you’re passed over for a promotion because your coworkers discovered you’re diagnosed with schizophrenia. It’s also seen in public perceptions as noted in the Surgeon’s General report where 60% of people felt like people with schizophrenia behaved violently. But the biggest danger of mental health stigma is when it’s felt inwardly. Because no matter how unfairly people treat you ourwardly, it’s nothing compared to the effects of feeling the stigma inside.

Mental health is something that matters whether you’re seven, seventeen and seventy, and any of those ages can fall victim to a mental illness. Depression, for example, is quite prevalent and undertreated in the elderly. But if you’re underage, it may be more difficult than just going to your doctor to start the process of getting help for your mental health. It likely means explaining your mental health concerns to your parents; which, quite reasonably, is scary to a young person. (It’s scary to an old person too, but I digress.) So how do you tell your parents you think you need mental health help?

For a long time I didn’t wear sandals. No, not because I don’t like them or because my toes have an aversion to open air but because of the scars on my ankles – that’s where I used to cut. My ankles looked like there were pink, wriggly worms embedded in them. And I was scared that everyone would see them and know what happened, know what I did. I figured people would take one look at me (zero in on my ankles for some reason) and then judge me as being a freak and a lunatic and I would be ostracized from normal, human interaction. That was a bit of an overreaction on my part driven by the shame of self-harming in the first place. I’ve gotten over it.

Natasha Tracy is not, in fact, my real name. It’s a nom de plume. Writers have a long history of writing under pen names for a whole variety of reasons but one of them has always been judgement. People will judge you, as a person, by what you write. Write erotica, for example, and get yourself a reputation as a slut. And as a mental health writer, I face similar stigma. True, people aren’t likely to make inferences about my sexual nature (although it has happened) but they will make judgements about me as a person and certainly as an employee. Because no matter how much I write about stigma and no matter how open people appear to be, a person with a mental illness is simply always assumed to be unequal to someone without a mental illness. Their point of view is always considered to be tainted by their illness. Their thoughts are never considered to be their own.

I don’t remember most Christmases; they tend to blur together in a sea of turkey, denial and wrapping paper. But the Christmas of 1998 was different. That Christmas was the one just before I began medication. That was the one I spent lying on the couch with bandaged arms. Looking back 1998 should have been a good year for me. I had completed an 8-month work term for my university degree, I had some money for the first time in a long time and I went backpacking across Europe. But unfortunately, 1998 was the year that bipolar decided to attack full-force. I spent the end of 1998 slicing and dicing and sobbing and begging for mercy. From what, exactly, I have never been able to say, but from whatever was causing the pain whatever made it impossible to move from my mother’s couch as the activities of Christmas went on around me. But in spite of this I had no intention of seeing a doctor and I most especially had no intention of seeing a psychiatrist. Those people were nothing but pill-pushers, nothing but drug dealers with letters after their name. And everyone knew that depression wasn’t a real disease and that anyone with real strength of character could overcome mental anguish on their own – not with the crutch of pharmaceuticals.

When I told my mother I had a mental illness, I’m pretty sure she didn’t believe me. She didn’t come right out and say it, but it was pretty clear she was suspicious. Once she did feel something was wrong, she was sure it could be fixed with vitamins and herbs. It couldn’t. And this is a pretty common reaction from family members. You have one of the hardest conversations of your life and the family member responds with, “you’re not sick.” Or, “you look fine to me.” Or, “you’re just being dramatic.” Or many other things that will tell you that they don’t believe anything is wrong. So how do you approach a family member and explain to them that everything is not OK.