Mental Illness Doesn't Define Me
Words by L.G. Durand // Image by Tammy Zdunich
In our current landscape, there is an invisible filament of tension inflected in our dialogues. Humming, unresolved, and also desired. People want a label, yet no one wants to be labelled. Define your sexuality, political party, religion, enneagram number, the list is endless. Yet do not put a label on me. We are constantly seeking to belong to a collective, to figure out where we fit in. Attaching ourselves to a group creates sameness, parameters, bonds, and often perceived generalizations. It gives us that feeling of affinity with others, commonality or it can ostracize. Some argue that labels are limiting and exclusionary. It is not the labels themselves but the connotations we attach to them. I believe labels have their place and are important agents of change.
In my early twenties, I was suffering from postpartum psychosis, suicidal ideations, and severe depression. All of which I hid and could not name. There was no more rope. I was untethered. This was the culmination of years of deep fault lines in my psyche. The birth of my daughter was the catalyst that precipitated this searing overwhelm.
The day my psychiatrist put a name to the relentless smothering of my spirit, I felt forgiven. I had not created this by my lack of. It was an illness called bipolar disorder. I slowly wound my way out of the searing darkness with medication, therapy, and support from my family and friends. As I dipped back into the world around me, an uncomfortable awareness grew. Mental Illness was not a label I could embrace and share without impunity. Images flooded back from my childhood of the great uncle who rode a tractor around town, drank scalding hot coffee, and was forcibly subdued by the police. Media clips of celebrities who went “crazy” as they ran naked through the streets scratched their way into my mind. Over time, I would research the illness and read autobiographies looking for pieces of myself in those pages. For years, I would burrow into this identity like an ill-fitting coat as I adjusted to these two words. I wore the shame of mental illness, the weight of one more layer of not belonging. The fear of being “less than” preyed on my already tilted self. It was too great a risk to reveal my diagnosis as I had no control over the preconceived beliefs the recipient may have. I divulged my “secret” to very few.
I pretended that this illness was an inconvenience. I went to the doctor, saw my therapist, took my meds, and checked all the boxes. I also had something to prove. This was never going to stop me from being “normal”. Actually, I was going to be better, busier, more, than normal. As my fear morphed and grew, its best friend insidiously seeped in, isolation. Over the next 12 years, I experienced six major depressive episodes, under a veil of secrecy, allowing only my husband to provide support. My inability to honor my mental and physical health also contributed to over 20 prescription changes during these years. This discord between who I appeared to be and who I was could not be maintained. The more I suppressed this part of myself, the more shame roared.
See me for all that I am.
My identity is not singularly about having bipolar disorder nor is it arbitrary. It does not define me, yet I cannot pretend it has no impact on me. My diagnosis was necessary for me to receive the proper medical care. Without this intervention, I am not sure I’d be writing this today.
Acceptance created stillness and space. I am not so busy turning away from and rushing to. My mind and body are no longer feared. The energy that crackled exhaustingly from me as I pushed and stomped on my dis-ease has dissipated. I have had the opportunity to look up now and realize I want change for myself and for my children. I want my children to live in a world where the label of a mental illness is not a shroud to hide under in fear. For me, that looks like telling my story. Silent for so long, it’s like a tiny drip of water from a rusty tap that’s trying to turn back on. I still pause, inhale sharply and have an internal debate as to whether to speak up when the conversation turns to mental health. I just…do. It’s too important not to.
Our fear of labels is the weight we place on the words. Words hold power because they provoke images in our minds. We change the words hoping to change the images. Manic depression becomes bipolar disorder. Same illness, different words, same images. People need to change the narratives evoked by the words. Change the stories and you change the pictures. You disrupt the inner dialogue that is rooted in our subconscious when you humanize the label. Mental illness is no longer an abstract, hodgepodge of clippings you’ve collaged to make sense of an abstruse issue.
There are parts of me in all of you.
Why are labels important? Claiming the labels, sharing the stories, changes the narratives.
About the Author:
L.G. Durand is a former educator and entrepreneur. She is currently a Small Business Consultant & Strategist with The Well Collaborative. L.G. is the co-founder of Shattering the Darkness, a mental health wellness initiative and co-host of the podcast Life in a Nutshell. Poetry is her first love.
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