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Illustration by Drew Shannon
I don’t remember a time when it was so commonplace to be open about personal struggles. It seems like everyone can be honest about the less palatable parts of themselves. Colleagues at work casually mention that they are seeing their therapist in the evening, and among friends “My therapist said,” is simply a matter of fact.
I have been in therapy since 2002 and was diagnosed as bipolar in 2008. Only a select few knew this at the time, but in the changing climate where mental health seemed less of a hush-hush issue that you sweep under the rug, I sometimes felt the urge to dive right in and come out.
As I inched closer to my confession, I had visions of amassing a following and becoming an advocate. I remembered a story of a woman with over 100,000 Instagram followers who shot to fame after filming herself during a manic episode. It prompted me to think, “Why not me?” After all, I ticked so many boxes: I was BIPOC, mentally ill and multi-hyphenated.
Things really could work out. I could ventilate a part of me that had been compressed for decades. A part that yearned to be vocal and acknowledged. Buzzed with these thoughts, the next morning I combed my hair and adjusted the angle of my lamp to minimize the hollows under my eyes. I sought to convey the calmest form of measured ease I could pull off to avoid anyone judging me as another loose-cannon bipolar person.
With the gentlest voice I could summon, I laid myself bear with a crescendo of confessions which culminated in what I sensed was the jewel of my delivery: “Ten years ago, my psychiatrist told me I should wear a mask, otherwise people would stigmatize me. This mask is sweat-leaden, stuffy and I can’t do this anymore.”
The response on Instagram was overwhelmingly positive. I was showered with endearing comments and emoticons, many from people I barely communicated with beforehand. They messaged me saying, “Big up to you for owning your truth!” or “Proud of you sis.” Love, love, love. It felt like I had traversed a rite of passage and arrived at an oasis of renewal. For an instant I wasn’t bipolar anymore but “brave,” “inspiring” and “cool.”
Then it all went to hell. I had a full-blown manic episode only weeks later.
Everyone has their unique poison during a manic episode. For some, it’s excessive spending, alcohol or sex. I binge on social media. I still can’t stomach that I posted over 100 reels on Instagram in one day. I’m whipped by shame when my mood is stable, but in the sweep of an episode, I’m convinced my commentary is insightful and flippant and I am well on my way to being discovered. Such is the dichotomy I have to reckon with.
Episodes typically last a couple of weeks. During this time, I lunge between one impulse and another, ricocheting like a bullet. But eventually, the spinning stops. This time around three weeks later it was as if a loose cog snapped into place. I was horrified that my mind had betrayed me yet again and could feel an iron pressure on my chest. It wasn’t real.
I found myself frantic, paranoid and stripped of any sense of safety. One of the cruelties of mania is how it exposes you. Your madness is on display and you can’t take any of it back. There is no clean slate once the mania subsides. As an insecure person who has always been preoccupied by what people think of me, the shame was excruciating. I mulled over what went through their minds and agonized over how I was no longer cool but “weird” and “deranged.”
As I was gradually capable of engaging in the activities that gave me pleasure, I grew contemplative. Why hadn’t anyone checked in on me? Sure, I was responsible; yet I felt let down by the woke atmosphere of keeping it real. It never occurred to me that there would be no real buffer when I fell. Having worked for a community organization, I grew to accept that a lot of the rhetoric of inclusion was like cheap veneer. But this was my personal life, and I didn’t see the desertion coming.
I can never truly know what went and still goes through the minds of everyone who knows that I am bipolar. Maybe I don’t want to. I do know that very few reached out when I was unwell. Whatever gushy feelings had surfaced when I came out did not withstand the reality of mania. This left me feeling ashamed, deserted and questioning the nature of my relationships (which I concluded were flimsier than I had anticipated).
I also wondered whether this wave of self-acceptance excludes serious mental-health conditions. Would I have been better off if I came out as queer? Am I expecting too much of others? All are mounting questions to an unresolved dilemma that defines the contours of my life.
Saddal Diab lives in Montreal.