you don’t look like it
Tags: Mental Health Advocacy, Bipolar, Mental Health Awareness, Neurodivergent, Neurodiversity

“You don’t look like it.” she confidently said.

“Like what?” I asked calmly but deeply annoyed.

“Like you’re bipolar. I don’t know, I just think it would be more obvious. My aunt has bipolar and it really shows.”

“Oh okay. Well it looks and feels different for everyone. There isn’t one way to be bipolar.”

The conversation ended quickly and we moved on to the next topic while struggling on our hike. I had decided to tell my friend that I had been recently diagnosed with bipolar II and started taking medication to help me function on a daily basis. I was now in the stage of making amends for my inexcusably difficult behavior the year before when I was experiencing the worst of my symptoms. I knew that I had improved greatly and I wanted to give her insight into the inexplicable torment that I had been through. I wanted to show her that I was becoming better and had more control over my life. I didn’t anticipate that she would invalidate it.

The problem for her was I didn’t fulfill the mold of what it meant to be bipolar. My moods didn’t swing fast enough for her. I seemed too stable in my educational and professional endeavors to be considered reckless. And there was no physical evidence in our relationship to show her that I my mind operated differently or that I worked my way through the world differently. I was still in college, I still hung out with our friends, and I seemed to be a functioning human being.

This encounter wasn’t the first nor would it be the last. I am what you may call “high functioning” with my mental state. Because I can complete the tasks expected from me in school and work and I can socially function, there is no possible way I could be bipolar. I am not the “certified crazy” stereotype that is slapped onto those who are bipolar. I’m not what you see in the movies or the TV shows and so I simply cannot be what I, my experiences, therapists, and psychiatrists have proclaimed.

In truth, in that moment of invalidation from my friend, I wanted to draw her a picture of the turmoil that my weary mind had been through. I wanted to take her to the silent and lonely moments of depression where it even felt like a chore to fill my lungs with oxygen. I wanted to take her to the moments of pure euphoria where I owned the world and I where I would give away myself to others and causes because I knew that once the fog rolled in, I would hide in the shell again. I wanted her to witness the frightening depressing fog that would roll in when the euphoria began to fade way. A fog that would completely engulf my mind and take me farther away from the person who I truly was. I wanted to show her the layers of masks I wore to be a socialite, how hard it was to get out of bed, to focus on the words in the books in front of me, and to calm a brain that never stopped spinning in a thousand directions.

I didn’t paint the picture for her and I didn’t paint it for many others who came along to invalidate my experiences. They would reassuringly let me know that I was one of them and I surely couldn’t be part of the “others.” A deep anger resides within me knowing that the world has created a division between the neurotypical and neurodivergent. A divide that renders the neurodivergent, like me, as helpless and damaged beings who can’t possibly function in society. They can’t accomplish, they can’t sustain relationships, and they can’t be their own independent beings.

I have become accustomed to the startled looks that I elicit when I say that I am bipolar. I choose not to explain to others how even if I don’t fit the bill for what it looks like to be bipolar, I still have my own experiences that have been diagnosed and are being treated. I choose not to illuminate every intimate detail of my life that can let others understand my struggles and blessings with my diagnosis because I shouldn’t have to justify what I already know to be true. I choose not to explain my neurodivergence because I shouldn’t have to defend my humanity nor those who also identify as neurodivergent.

I simply choose to proclaim that I am bipolar while being a public health professional, a daughter, a sister, and a friend. I’ve been advised that my openness about the way my mind works will only draw criticism and stem professional opportunities away from me. What once scared me now gives me more resolve to advocate for neurodivergence and for a world that accepts all minds, not what just is “normal.” If it scares the opportunities away, then so be it. There is no room for discrimination against the neurodivergent.

She’s right. I probably don’t look like it. But I feel like it, I live with it, and I am 100% okay having it.