Everyone around you just wants the best for you. But the best isn’t always what’s in store for us bipolar folks. If I had to describe my current mood, I would say I am partly cloudy with a chance of rain. But you wouldn’t know it based on interacting with me.
I wear a mask. If I dissect my Facebook feed, I see everyone putting their best self forward — sweet new digs, fabulous international vacations, cool gigs at festivals like SXSW in Austin, TX, and Sundance in Park City, UT. You rarely see people post about negative events like when your beloved childhood babysitter dies — like in my case recently. Grief is less common on Facebook. People want to keep their fears and feelings private.
Sometimes I have anxiety over the most trivial of things. A texting session. A personal encounter. A night of bad sleep. I overanalyze what I said or did or what happened, to the point of stressing myself out. Then I work it out with my therapist or a friend who is usually helpful in getting me to see the issue from a different, more positive perspective.
I had three bad mental health days in a row recently, due to poor sleep and running out of one of my meds. I was ruminating over a pensive turn of events, fixating big time. And I kept flipping the metaphoric same record over and over again. That incident turned out to be just fine.
The pressure cooker of happiness is high-and-mighty. It comes at you from all sides, from all walks of life, barreling at you like the obstacles on Donkey Kong. But all you want to do is climb to the top to save the Princess of Happiness. You know you can do it, but the pressure is a blockade. It’s easy to cower when you finally get home, hiding your head under the covers. But it’s better to not let things bottle up. Confide in a friend, significant other, or your therapist. The boiling water will cool down.
But when you’re not fine, when you’re torn up inside, it’s best to find an outlet to air your feelings so that you can, as they say in AA, “fake it ‘til you make it.” That’s what therapy — or, for us who are dually diagnosed, Dual Recovery Anonymous — is for.
I faked fine for nearly a year in 2008, while working at MTV News. After going on medical leave for a major manic episode, I returned to work only to find my life shattered by sadness. I couldn’t handle the subway, so I took a taxi to work every day. I took frequent walks around the block, hoping that no one would notice I was gone from my desk every couple hours. I procrastinated about work then returned home every day and cried it out, easing my pain with frequent hugs from my live-in boyfriend at the time.
I wasn’t fine and it seemed like things would never be fine again. But they were. Depression passes. It always does.
But what’s important to note is that we all wear masks. Even the normies. Everyone has something wrong with their life. We cover up the bad things and pretend to be all right. Some people think that being emotional is a sign of weakness, especially if you’re male. But I’m here to tell you that being emotional is human. There is no shame. If you need a good cry, have at it.
