I often refer to myself as manic depressive or bipolar. I’m not awfully fond of bipolar because it sounds like bisexual polar bears and well, that’s not me, not that there‘s anything wrong with that though, heh. It also gives off the impression that there are two of me and that’s not it either. It’s not multiple personality disorder. I remember on date number three when I told my, now husband, that I was bipolar he said, “So, that’s like you have two personalities?” I was shocked he asked that, shocked he didn’t know what it meant. But then again I held a Psychology degree, worked in the mental health field and was exposed to mental illness, and those who knew about it, on a daily basis.

So, manic depression it is. Self explanatory, sometimes manic, sometimes depressed and sometimes both at the same time. That’s me.





I remember my junior year in college I was taking a class called Abnormal Psychology. On the first day the professor told us that as we learn about these illnesses we may sometimes find ourselves relating a bit with one or more of them. He told us that in no way should we diagnose ourselves, that all people have a few different quirky behaviors here and there and just because it’s mentioned in the Abnormal Psychology class or book doesn’t mean we have it. DO NOT DX YOURSELF! Big, loud, direct orders.

So when it came time to study manic depression (it had not yet been changed to bipolar) I felt a close relationship to it. For the first time in my life I thought, “Holy shit, that’s why I am the way I am.” I leaned over to my friend and I said in a whisper, “this is me.” She leaned back to me and sternly said, “Remember, do not diagnose yourself.” I let it go. I forgot about that moment for years until I was sitting in the Psychiatrists office and she said, “I think you have bipolar.” Of course my first reaction was, “I can’t be bipolar, I am a case manager.” She smiled and said it didn’t matter.

On my drive home I remembered that moment in college years ago when I had thought I was manic depressive.

I’d had other times where I believed my mental health was suspect. After graduation I got a job as a case manager in a partial hospitalization program. It was a day program for severe and persistently mentally ill adults. I remember being a “newbie” that fresh faced kid out of college who was there to change the world. I remember some of the clients looking at me like I was just some kid on step one of the professional psychiatric ladder and I wouldn’t be there in another year so why bother getting to know me. This really bugged me. I wasn’t in it for the money (there was none), I wasn’t in it to move up. I was there because I cared. I was there because the thought of people being unhappy made me sick to my stomach. I thought if I could change that then my life would have meaning.

I was in charge of a couple of groups/classes. One day we were sitting around trying to plan a fun event for the whole day program to enjoy. It was like party planning class. I was so excited and I had all these ideas of what we could celebrate and how we could decorate the place. I looked around at the faces of despair and sadness. I saw people who didn’t want to plan a party because they felt they had nothing to celebrate.

That day I put down the scissors and set aside the glue and I asked them if they'd mind talking about their illness with me. I asked them to treat me like a blank slate. I asked them to take away any preconceived ideas they had about me because I was young or had a degree. I asked them to teach me about them and the illness that they had. I wanted to know what it felt like, how it affected them. I needed to understand.

That was the day I realized I didn’t learn shit in college. No amount of reading some bloody Abnormal Psychology book did me any good.

I also learned another thing that day…we were a lot alike.