My mental illness and I have always been on a collision
course. Armed with a bachelors from Cornell and a JD, I did what other disabled
individuals may not bother: research. Even before I was medicated for my first
depression, I would walk from my therapist’s office in Greenwich Village to a
nearby Barnes and Noble to read self-help books. I would then go home, too
depressed to follow their suggestions. When a self-help book mentioned a diagnostic
manual, I looked at that too. I also believed it, which became a problem. When my
psychiatrist diagnosed me as bipolar, I hadn’t been manic. He was the Chief of
Psychiatry at a major New York City hospital so he knew there was more to
bipolar illness than alternating manic-depressive episodes. Now the diagnostic
manual describes Bipolar II disorder and mixed episodes. My psychiatrist didn’t
explain how he came to his conclusion and lead me to believe I would always be
depressed.
Later in my treatment, my problem would be the opposite: I
hated the stigma associated with a diagnosis. Don’t we all have faults? Shortly
after being diagnosed, a therapist encouraged me to go to a workshop on
codependency, which involves excessive emotional reliance on a partner. At the
workshop, the speaker described her codependent relationship with her cat. I
did not return.
Now I realize a mental health diagnosis is the same as any other
diagnosis. It classifies people who display the same symptoms. It’s mostly
necessary for health insurance purposes. It doesn’t define a person and it
certainly doesn’t stop someone from getting better.
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