I’m not disabled.

Perhaps this is why I appear perfectly normal when I chat with strangers who’ve only known me for 5 minutes. After all, I’m not limping or dragging an oxygen tank behind me. I’m not confined to a wheelchair or aided by a service animal. I’m not visibly disfigured nor do I have slurred speech. Nope. From the outside I’m just one-of-the-crowd.

Neither was becoming “disabled” my intention. I just wanted to forget the bipolar-depression label I’d been branded with and waltz confidently into the professional world most of my friends had already settled into.

I witnessed friends successfully earning their keep with far less world experience than me and no family to catch them if they fell. They perfectly personified that “bootstrap” mentality we Americans are supposed to be known for. Moreover, my friends assured me there was nothing they were capable of doing I couldn’t do as well. With all my heart I wanted to believe them, but it sure didn’t feel that way.

For three years following university graduation I labored for my independence.  Meanwhile the self-inflicted scars and visits to the ER and adult psyche unit steadily increased. Two psychiatrists (one in Scottsdale and one in Flagstaff) convinced me to apply for disability so as to take the pressure of work off my shoulders for a while. The social security disability people accepted me almost immediately.

Since I’ve been on disability, the urge to self-harm has completely gone away. Also, I’ve been able to help me family, especially as my mom’s back has deteriorated and she’s been bedridden at times, in and out of surgery, and can no longer drive a car.

Disability is not my gateway to the “American Dream” nor is it something I like to boast about. I don’t like the idea of receiving handouts when it’s obvious I’m not void of talent or intellect. But I’m a bit cornered. On the one hand, I have a sense of security. On the other hand, deep down I know it’s a false sense of security.

Truth be told, those of us with mental disabilities are not trusted to be given our monthly checks personally. We need a guardian to take charge of our money and I’ve chosen my dad. Yes, he’s the most honest, respectable, reliable guardian I could have ever hoped for, but he won’t live forever. So my dream is to earn enough money before he leaves this world to give him the reassurance that I’ll be taken care of when he’s gone.

I listened to a podcast recently from This American Life about the increase in people applying for disability nowadays. The reporter, Chana Joffe-Walt, said there were basically only two ways to get off disability: to die or to turn 65 (in which case you’d switch to a different government assistance program).

I won’t lie, but to think those were my only two options made me cringe. Could it be that hopeless?

Sorry but I can’t believe I’ve been shoved into a hole with no other way out.  I may not be able to do a regular “9 to 5” routine as my friends do but I’m not going to allow myself to lay waste as though I have nothing valuable to give this world.

There are a few obstacles, as in any good story, but I think I’m ready for the challenge. The biggest obstacle is – and always has been – me. That’s where psychiatrists, psychologists, dialectical behavioral therapy, prayer (lots of prayer), and this blog come in.

This blog is a tool for me; an outlet. Here I can express myself and layout my best thoughts and ideas in a place where others can find them.

Long ago I thought my story wasn’t worth seeing through to the end. I was wrong.

Do you have any ideas for myself and others like me?

This happened more often than I would’ve liked. A professor would assign group projects and then release us young and unsuspecting students out of our seats to find a partner. I would usually freeze for a minute and survey the room while my body filled with a sense of fear and anxiety. Where do I go? Is anybody trying to find me? It took everything within me not to burst into tears because those I really couldn’t control and they were super embarrassing for a 20-something woman to have to explain.

It was like this time when, as a teen, I went to the water-park with my friend’s church group. I knew maybe three people but I gave it a shot anyway. Somehow we became separated and I was wandering the park solo. It was night and despite the fact there were people everywhere, I felt completely invisible. When I reconvened with the group later for departure, no one seemed to notice I’d been alone to begin with. I wondered, in my fragile, adolescent mind, does anyone care if I exist or not?

I glanced through my notes tonight, trying to find something to focus on in my writing. In doing so, I scanned through the medical records from my last, inpatient hospitalization. When psychiatrists diagnose patients, they sometimes have to give them two or three diagnostics. It’s mostly an insurance thing. Here’s what they wrote for me in November of 2008:

Axis I: Bipolar I

Axis II: Borderline Personality Disorder

Now “Axis I” is the most dominant and then the rest are organized in descending order from most prevalent to least prevalent. For those familiar with bipolar disorder (or manic depression as some call it), that’s actually the one most associated with creativity and it’s quite manageable when properly medicated.

Personality disorders, on the other hand, are much trickier. Borderline requires a very specific kind of therapy called dialectical behavioral therapy which is a very intensive out-patient ordeal but isn’t offered in very many places and therefore difficult to enroll in. I took an abbreviated version of it when I was still self-injuring, but even that was a tremendous time-commitment. Most of my “classmates” dropped out leaving maybe two of us at the very end.

I think for the most part I’ve “outgrown” my personality disorder as I’ve read many borderlines do. But when I realize I’m not getting anywhere when it comes to liking people and getting people to like me back, I think maybe this personality thing is still troubling me.

Here is the diagnostic criteria for borderline personality disorder. There are 9 but you only need 5 to get the diagnosis (from http://www.nami.org/Template.cfm?Section=By_Illness&Template=/TaggedPage/TaggedPageDisplay.cfm&TPLID=54&ContentID=44780)

1. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment
2. A pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation.
3. Identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self.
4. Impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g., spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating.)
5. Recurrent suicidal behavior, gestures, or threats, or self-mutilating behavior.
6. Affective [mood] instability.
7. Chronic feelings of emptiness.
8. Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g., frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights).
9. Transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or sever dissociative symptoms.

What does all this mean for me? It means I need to find a way to get people to like me which doesn’t involve me acting all weird and stuff.  But here’s the thing. I’m not always aware of how what I say might affect others nor do I always think before saying weird things to people.

On a similar token, I can’t love others if I can’t also love myself. I’ve learned it’s not vanity to love yourself in this context. It’s just treating yourself with the same respect and dignity you want to treat others with. This means I have lots of therapy ahead of me still. I wish I could say I didn’t need it anymore, but to be honest I’ll probably need it all my life.

My goal then is this: to find a purpose for my life – one that’s tailored to my individual strengths and weaknesses (none of those generic purposes that somehow always land on the bestseller list).

My twenties began as my most carefree days ever, then rapidly crumbled into a time of fear, failure, and a complete loss of my sense of self-worth. After my first unanticipated stay in a psychiatric hospital, I immediately felt the stigma. You can’t, after all, tell a stranger you’ve been in a psychiatric hospital and expect him to look at you like you were no different than the patient suffering from appendicitis or a mild form of malaria.  Yes, those last two have been known to be fatal, but if you survive, no one questions your value as a human being. Psychiatric patients, however, are damaged in a way the average population finds difficult comprehend. Indeed, even the field of psychology fails to validate their field with its inability to apply standard scientific methods for diagnosing; relying almost entirely on listening to patients and observing their behaviors.

After my first involuntary hospitalization, I tried to will myself away from any more humiliating stays in one of those painful, prison-like facilities. First I tried to forget anything was wrong with me. But when forgetting proved impossible, I thought my only true relief would be suicide. Little did I know the very act of trying to kill myself would bring me back to the one place I wanted so much to forget.

I’m quite intelligent, I’ve been told. I mean, I’ve never had an IQ test to prove it nor do I want one. But I’ve struggled most of my life to see myself as intelligent. Elementary school through junior high, school was relatively easy. High school and beyond, even in some of my favorite, most memorable classes, I found it difficult to maintain anything above a C – average. Once in a while someone would look at me as I lugged around books and talked about my passions and they’d assume I was one of those Stanford-bound kids or something. Then, when I confessed my grades were not good enough, I’d see a frightful look of disbelief in their eyes, like I should have yelled “spoiler alert” before the conversation even began. Lesson: grades and academic awards are not accurate measures of intelligence.

Later, in conversing with my psychiatrist, she lamented about how she wished I were less intelligent because the more aware you are of the world you live in, the more painful the stigma against mental illness is. A less-intelligent person diagnosed with manic-depression (or any kind of higher-functioning mental illness) will live in a sort of blissful ignorance and the pain of stigma won’t bare so deep in them.

It is for this reason temporary stays in psychiatric hospitals are very important for many young, high-strung individuals diagnosed with serious but manageable mental illnesses. It was in the hospital, after a suicide attempt, where I learned the benefit of dreaming about the beautiful things I’d like to do in life. Having a future to hope for diminishes the desire to die young significantly.

This is a relaxing project I did a few times in art therapy: simply cut out pictures from magazines of people, places, and things to remind you of things you want to do before you die and things you enjoying doing now.

I made my book while I was still in my twenties. If I’m ever going to do any of the athletic stuff I have a lot of work to do to get my body in shape. But many of my dreams remain, even now that I’m in my thirties.

I’ve thought about writing something like this before – an essay detailing the positive aspects of my manic depression. It’s tough, though. You see, a huge chunk of my life has been spent apologizing for my gifts. I mean, I didn’t want to become too “stuck on myself.”  So, in order to remain humble, I’d either refuse compliments, or take them but feel a tad guilty.

Keep in mind that, for me, the Bible has always been the foundation of my faith and I’ve found it to be particularly critical about pride. The way I see it, God gets the glory because he created the universe and he created us and every talent and gift we’ve been given comes from God. For example – Jesus said: “For whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.” (Matthew 23:12)

Later Paul writes, “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves.” (Philippians 2:3)

Humility and putting others first seems a blatant contradiction to society at large. I still remember how in third grade, learning to esteem ourselves had been integrated into our class curriculum. We were actually supposed to feel good about ourselves regardless of our achievements. For some people, it came naturally. I, on the other hand, couldn’t quite grasp why I should feel good about myself. Was it the depression? Maybe.

Rich Mullins, my all-time favorite songwriter, once said this in a radio interview:

“ ….in a day when so much emphasis and so much pressure is put on us to esteem ourselves I kind of go, wow, I don’t know how anyone can wake up with morning breath and pillow head and feel any self esteem. (laughing) That is not the sort of thing I want to put my faith in. And in the church it is unbelievable to me that this whole foolishness about esteeming yourself has leaked into the church. I kind of go, ‘Christ didn’t ask us to esteem ourselves.’ I think if Christ were asked, I think He would probably say, ‘Look buddy, you would be lucky if you could forget yourself. If you could lose yourself, you would be luckier than if you found yourself.’ It would be wonderful if you knew the names of the trees between your house and where you work, between your house and your church. If you knew that that was a tulip tree and you knew that that was a red bud. It would be great if you knew the names of the constellations. It would be great if you knew something about your neighbor. It would be a lucky thing for you if you forgot yourself, if you lost yourself…what a wonderful thing when you are so caught up in a moment when you are so lost in an experience that you forget to straighten your tie or to comb your hair. Why esteem yourself? Forget yourself. You’ll have a lot more fun.”

Thus since my adolescence, I’ve resisted feelings of self-worth. But the battle between my desire to be noticed and my desire to be forgotten became increasingly fatiguing.  I knew I was gifted with a pleasant singing voice, for example. But I also knew I wouldn’t stand a chance competing with the “American Idols” of the day. I’ve felt gifted in writing, too, but then I look at the folks who’ve actually published and my heart drops because I don’t see myself as their equal.

I know too much pride can be dangerous, but the ancient Hebrew and Greek texts do not seem to have advice for those suffering from not-enough-pride. There is one well-known piece of wisdom, though, that baffled me for a long time.

“Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.” (Matthew 22:37-40)”

“Love your neighbor as yourself.” That’s the “Golden Rule,” my friends. But the message here backfires if you are unable to love yourself. If you wish God would strike you down dead at this moment to rid the world of someone like you, then you hate yourself. If you hate yourself, how can you love your neighbor?

Still, before diagnostic labels were stamped on me, back when my depression was viewed as nothing more than a heightened sensitivity, I felt a strong, sometimes overwhelming, compassion toward the weak and downtrodden. I felt compelled to feed the poor or talk with the lonely outcasts. It was a double-standard, I knew, but it was also a reflection of the love I longed for someone would give me.

I was lonely. I ditched high school for one day my senior year and drove to a nearby hiking trail leading to a crevice in the rock with a tremendous view of the valley below. Up there, I pulled a notebook and pencil from backpack and let my sadness poor into written words. Then I sat silently, read my Bible a little, and prayed.

After descending the trail, I stopped again at a park with a view of the river. A homeless man had just woken up after spending the night at a picnic table there. He was a drug-addict like so many others. I was barely 19 and I sat with him, read the entire gospel of John, and then struggled with the pain of having nothing else to offer.

Stories of this kind accumulated from that point forward. Most of them I kept secret (between myself and God). But when the emotions became unmanageable while I was living far away in France, I carried this concept of compassionate love to a level only God could maintain. And, since I’m not God, I crashed all the harder and required uncountable hours to recover.

To cope with the illness I’d been labeled with, I found comfort in identifying with “crazy” artists like Vincent van Gogh, Hector Berlioz, Virginia Woolf, and Sylvia Plath. The world-renowned expert on manic depression, Kay Redfield Jamison, even wrote a book for people like me entitle: Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament. But when I allowed myself to rejoice in the idea that my manic-depression could be a enormous gift, my more sane, artistic friends immediately protested.

They argued that it was cruel to greedily claim a higher level of creativity (known as the “creative edge”) because it implied that those who didn’t have the creative edge could never create anything great. This, of course, drove me down again into a desperate darkness in which, like political correctness forcing me to be hyperconscious about how I speak of race, religion, and gender, I felt I could not boast of a “creative edge” because it might offend the creative community.

However, after careful contemplation and years of therapy, I’ve now come to the conclusion that I need to own my manic depression and NOT let it own me. Not everyone can sing. Does that mean those of us who can should keep it to ourselves so as not to offend those who can’t sing? No!

Secondly, I am a huge fan of psychotropic medicine. The other argument against any sort of mental illness being exalted as “the creative edge” revolves around psyche patients stopping their meds so they might recapture a bout of mania and create something so original and unique it will be honored and revered until the end of the world. This is a legitimate concern I think Kay Redfield Jamison addresses quite nicely in her aforementioned book.

Here’s what I think: medicine doesn’t destroy the creative edge. It just softens the emotions to a workable level. Besides, without meds, you still can’t summon a manic episode whenever you want. When mania does arrive, it doesn’t always give you the results you want. I mean, if you walk into a busy intersection, thinking you’re invincible, and then suddenly you’re hit by a car, you could lose a lot more than the creative edge. Skipping medicine is a high risk choice.

So what I’d like to do for a few weeks is take my manic-depression and own it. If I can see my manic depression as a gift more so than a burden, I may be able to convince a few of you to do the same.