mirror mirror on the wall

I have always had a love hate relationship with my mirror, mostly hate. At a very young age I began to question and sometimes fear what that large rectangular piece of glass had to say.
I remember when I realized I was ugly. I was in first grade, and one of my friends was to have a very special birthday party. A local television station had a cartoon-oriented show that they aired on Saturdays. Cartoons would be shown, and in between the cartoons the host would talk with children who sat in rows on bleachers. Caroline’s dad had managed to book a show for her birthday. I was so excited. It was a show I watched every Saturday, and I couldn’t wait to be on television. I even practiced: “Hello, my name is Laurie, and I am 6 years old.” It was going to be wonderful.
We arrived at the station, and one of the stage managers told us to sit by height. Lucky me, I ended up sitting on the top row of the small risers, directly in the middle. The host always talked to kids in the middle. After we were all seated, we waited quietly for the host to come in.
He looked even better in person. He wore a blue suit with a crazy tie, and he smiled a lot. But then I saw him wrinkle his brow. He looked at me for a long moment and then turned his gaze toward Jane, who was sitting on the end of the first row.
“Sweetheart,” he said to me. “Could I have you switch with that young lady over there? I think it would look more balanced.”
You should know something about Jane. She was petite with a very small nose, and her hair was cut into the latest Dorothy Hammel haircut. You should also know something about me. I was the tallest, skinniest kid in my class. My teeth were crooked, and my pointy glasses sat solidly atop my…generous nose.
So, at the host’s request, I switched places with Jane and tried to smile as he talked with her during the show. A few weeks later, I watched the episode, and Jane looked great. Me? I wasn’t even there.
There have been times in my life when I have made peace with the glass, even embraced it. But now, as medication has wreaked havoc with my weight and my complexion, and as I begin to see the evidence of my forty-one years, once again I avoid the glass. And once again, I wish I was Jane.

blinding darkness, blackest light - prologue

“Everybody’s Bipolar”

This remark was made by a friend and colleague one Monday after a meeting. I am sure she was trying to make light of an earlier comment that she realized had offended me. How could she have known that this nonchalant remark was almost as offensive? I tried to laugh it off with her, but inside, the old frustration was churning.

Everyone is not bipolar. Mania is not cleaning the baseboards or the oven or managing to multitask. Depression is not feeling down. Having bipolar disorder does not just mean you are “moody” or “sensitive” or even unpredictable. These things are called being human…unless of course you are cleaning the baseboards with a toothbrush at 2:00 am after not sleeping for two days straight, or you are so “down” that you have already figured out the best pill combination that will kill you without making you sick. The idea that “everyone is bipolar” is just, well, ludicrous.

Then there is the other extreme. “You can’t be bipolar because…” First of all, no one really knows what goes on inside my brain and body except for me and the people or person I choose to tell. I was not diagnosed because I was tired or because I had just made the worst choice of my life or because I am more moody than my husband. I was tired because I never slept. I made the worst choice of my life in part because I was manic. My moods fluctuate infinitely more than my husband’s because I have bipolar disorder.

So what does all of my ranting really mean? It is simple. Not everyone who has energy has bipolar disorder. Just because someone manages to hold down a job and put on a brave face does not mean they do not have bipolar disorder. And, finally, my name is Laurie, and I do have bipolar disorder.

The Day Before

In honor of Mental Health Awareness Month, I have to decided to journal each day during the month of May...the good, the bad, and the "crazy," to coin and slightly alter a phrase. If you would like to crawl inside the mind of someone who remembers mental illness each day, all twelve months of the year, here's your chance. But a word of caution: if you have decided that it is more beneficial to remain in a comfort zone of assumptions, reading this might just change your mind, and you might be tempted to view those who struggle with these very real illnesses with more compassion and understanding. Consider yourself warned. Blogging begins tomorrow.