Dear Family and Friends,

It’s been too long since I’ve sent out an email, but in the New Year I plan to revisit the Bipolar Biweekly newsletter. Fortunately, I’ve been busy working on other mental health projects, one of which is an organization that is deeply important to me.

A while back, when I was struggling with depression, my lovely sister offered resources from the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance (DBSA). Regrettably, I didn't take advantage of them then.

However, earlier this year, I was invited to help found DBSA's Associate Board and I've seen firsthand the incredible impact they make in supporting those affected by depression and bipolar disorder.

People living with mood disorders face challenges such as cost of care, lack of coverage and provider availability, as well as general provider and family understanding. DBSA’s free peer support services and resources offer an opportunity to overcome these challenges and overall brighten lives.

I'm asking for your support by making a donation to DBSA. Your contribution, no matter the size, directly helps individuals and families facing these challenges.

Please consider donating below or reach out to me directly if you prefer another method.

Thank you for the support and happy holidays! 🎊
Aidan

Help me reach my $1000 goal

Learn more about DBSA

1. Changes in Mood and Behavior: One of the first signs of mental health issues is a noticeable change in mood and behavior. These changes may manifest as persistent sadness, irritability, sudden mood swings, or unexplained aggression. Pay attention to shifts in energy levels, appetite, sleep patterns, and social withdrawal. These variations can indicate underlying mental health concerns, such as depression, anxiety, or bipolar disorder.

2. Persistent Physical Symptoms: Mental health issues often manifest through physical symptoms. Frequent headaches, stomachaches, muscle tension, and unexplained aches and pains may be indicative of underlying stress, anxiety, or other mental health disorders. While it's essential to rule out any physical causes, recurring physical discomfort should prompt further exploration of one's emotional well-being.

3. Changes in Cognitive Abilities: Noticeable changes in cognitive abilities can be warning signs of mental health issues. Difficulty concentrating, making decisions, or remembering things that were once easy to recall may indicate cognitive impairment associated with conditions such as depression or anxiety. Be mindful of excessive worry, racing thoughts, or persistent negative thinking patterns as well.

4. Shifts in Sleep Patterns: Sleep disturbances are often linked to mental health problems. Pay attention to significant changes in sleep patterns, such as insomnia or excessive sleepiness. Insomnia, characterized by difficulty falling asleep or staying asleep, may be a sign of anxiety or depression. On the other hand, excessive sleepiness or prolonged periods of sleep could indicate conditions like depression or chronic fatigue.

5. Social Withdrawal and Isolation: A sudden withdrawal from social activities or a noticeable decline in social interactions may be a sign of underlying mental health issues. Individuals experiencing depression or anxiety may prefer solitude, avoid socializing, or lose interest in activities they once enjoyed. If you or someone you know is displaying signs of social withdrawal, it's important to offer support and encourage seeking professional help.

6. Substance Abuse and Risky Behaviors: Engaging in substance abuse or participating in risky behaviors can be coping mechanisms for individuals struggling with mental health problems. These behaviors may temporarily alleviate emotional pain or provide a false sense of control. Be wary of excessive alcohol or drug use, engaging in unsafe sexual practices, or seeking thrill-seeking activities without regard for personal safety.

Recognizing the warning signs of mental health issues empowers individuals to take proactive steps towards emotional well-being. It is crucial to approach these signs with empathy, understanding, and without judgment. If you or someone you know is displaying these warning signs, encourage seeking professional help from a mental health expert. Remember, early intervention and support can make a significant difference in managing mental health challenges and promoting a healthier, happier life.

Support networks that offer understanding, empathy, and assistance during difficult times have the power to significantly alter the course of one's recovery. In my most challenging moments, when I felt drained and devoid of energy, I was unprepared to provide my support team with the necessary guidance that could have benefited me the most. When your support team is at a loss, the pace of care slows down significantly. In this blog post, I’ll provide 5 effective methods for sharing your mental health plan with your loved ones, fostering open communication, and strengthening relationships.

1. Reflect on your mental health plan

2. Choose the right time and place

3. Be open and honest

4. Communicate your needs and boundaries

5. Seek professional guidance

It's important to note that your mental health plan can take various forms, such as a journal entry or a Google Sheet—whatever feels most comfortable for you. Additionally, consider that sharing your plan becomes easier if you can provide a PDF or a link to your support team for easy access and reference.

1. Reflect on your mental health plan

Before sharing your mental health plan, take some time to reflect on your own needs, goals, and strategies. Consider the following questions.

Which specific aspects of your mental health do you wish to address?

For instance, I may seek to address my irritability when things don't go as planned.

What strategies or activities have you discovered that are helpful in managing your mental health?

For instance, engaging in activities like taking walks, listening to music, and journaling my thoughts have proven to be beneficial.

What are your short-term and long-term goals for recovery or prevention?

In the short term, my goal is to identify effective coping mechanisms. In the long term, I aspire to assist others in discovering their own coping strategies.

What kind of support from your loved ones would be most beneficial?

For example, I appreciate my loved ones recognizing my efforts and understanding that this journey is not linear. Setbacks may occur, but they do not negate overall progress.

2. Choose the right time and place

Selecting an appropriate time and place to discuss your mental health plan is crucial.

Create a calm, private environment where you can have an uninterrupted conversation.

For instance, consider taking a walk in a serene natural setting, allowing yourself to focus on each step and breathe deeply.

Allocate sufficient time for both you and your loved ones to engage in a meaningful dialogue without feeling rushed.

For example, set a specific duration for the conversation, such as one or two hours, to establish clear expectations from the outset.

3. Be open and honest

Approach the conversation with honesty and vulnerability.

Articulate the impact of mental health on your daily life and express the importance of having a well-defined plan.

For instance, if necessary, jot down notes to ensure clarity. E.g.; I've been facing challenges in social situations where I find myself becoming irritable whenever someone discusses their accomplishments, which makes me feel like a failure.

Assist your loved ones in grasping the significance of your mental health struggles.

For example, share specific instances that have been particularly challenging. By illustrating these moments, help them recognize the types of situations that can present obstacles to recovery.

4. Communicate your needs and boundaries

Clearly communicate what kind of support you need from your loved ones

Outline specific ways in which your loved ones can provide assistance, such as being there for a chat when you're feeling overwhelmed or reminding you to prioritize self-care activities.

For example, consider selecting three ways your support system can make your life a little easier. It could be helping you remember to take your medication when initially prescribed, encouraging you to go for a short, 5-minute walk, or being available for a quick check-in every day at 6 PM.

Recognize the importance of establishing mutual boundaries to maintain a healthy and supportive relationship.

Determine various methods to establish boundaries. This may include communicating via text for regular check-ins until you feel like you need a break, or expressing your need for privacy when necessary.

5. Seek professional guidance

Suggest involving a mental health professional in the conversation.

Seek support from mental health professionals to receive guidance and direction.

Openly communicate with your provider about your challenges and concerns. If you currently don't have a provider, request assistance from your support team in finding one.

Mental health professionals can offer feedback on setting guidelines, provide insightful ideas, and facilitate effective communication.

Engaging the expertise of a therapist or counselor can bring valuable guidance, allowing for an objective perspective and the introduction of fresh ideas. Their involvement can encourage the exploration of unique approaches to your mental health journey.

In Summary

In challenging times, support networks that offer understanding, empathy, and assistance can profoundly impact one's recovery. However, sharing your mental health plan with loved ones requires careful consideration. Reflect on your mental health needs, strategies, and goals. Choose a calm and private setting for uninterrupted conversations, being open and honest about the impact of mental health on your life. Clearly communicate the support you need and establish boundaries. Consider involving a mental health professional for guidance. By considering these ideas, you can foster open communication, strengthen relationships, and create a supportive environment for your mental health journey.

1. Reflect on your mental health plan

2. Choose the right time and place

3. Be open and honest

4. Communicate your needs and boundaries

5. Seek professional guidance

Missed the last post? View here.

Bipolar Biweekly continues to grow

After a busy several months, we are attracting new voices, phenomenal storytellers, and brave writers. The growth of Bipolar Biweekly means more people will learn, feel heard, and discover the complications of living with mental health challenges.

The core purpose of Bipolar Biweekly is to amplify narratives related to mental health. Through the power of personal accounts that reflect on these experiences, we create an inclusive environment where authentic and empathetic dialogues can thrive.

Meet the people behind Bipolar Biweekly

Aidan McKee

Aidan is the founder of Bipolar Biweekly. He embraces the opportunity to expand his understanding of mental health through engaging conversations with individuals who bravely share their stories.

Bipolar Biweekly Home

Monica Alves

Monica is a mental health advocate. She hopes to both share her mental health journey and learn from others' experiences. In her free time, she hikes, travels, and practices mindfulness with her dogs Milo and Walter.

Monica's articles

Joanne P. McCallie - “Coach P.”

Joanne is an Author, Speaker, Mental Health Advocate and Hall of Fame DI basketball coach. With over 600 wins, she has coached at Maine, Michigan State, and Duke, earning National Coach of the Year in 2005.

Joanne's articles

Mike Bernard

Mike is an author and screenwriter, having recently released a book titled "It Sounded Better in My Head." This poignant story serves as an emotionally assured and heartfelt homage to the profound influence of music, the complexities of mental health, the power of love, and the pursuit of dreams. Mike collaborated with his son, Tim, to craft a delightful and witty portrayal of life with OCD, offering a unique blend of humor and emotion.

Buy "It Sounded Better in My Head"

Tim Bernard

Tim is a talented musician living in New York. In his dad’s book, “It Sounded Better in My Head,” he provides songs that help tell the story of navigating life with mental health. Tim’s music is deep, beautiful, and reveals a first hand account of living with OCD.

Jenna Hornsby

Jenna is a Development Manager at the Eastern Congo Initiative. Additionally, she is a phenomenal writer and beautifully describes the need for those living with serious mental illnesses to not “shrink their dreams.” If you’d like to gain valuable insight into the experience of living with mania, Jenna outlines the intensity and learnings in her piece below.

"Nina Simone and I Have a Lot in Common"

Audrey Morgan Lee

Audrey is the author of the poetry collections Disjecta Membra (Bottlecap Press, 2022) and Probably, Angels (Maverick Duck Press, 2020). Audrey writes essays interrogating media narratives and internet histories of female hysteria and trauma. Her descriptive writing will draw you in, while simultaneously forcing a desire to reflect.

"Hunger for a Way Out"

Betsy Ring

Betsy is a journalist and editor with a career that has taken her around the world. If you read an article on Bipolar Biweekly there is a 98% chance she is the editor. Betsy is also a remarkably creative and thoughtful writer. Some may say her biggest achievement is being Aidan’s mom, but her talented writing is a pretty close second.

Interview with Betsy

What’s Next

The “Natural Disaster Mental Health Supply Kit”

Currently underway is the development of a comprehensive Supply Kit designed to assist individuals in navigating mental health challenges with the same level of preparedness, resilience, and recovery as they would during a natural disaster, whether it be their own or someone else's.

Thank you for the support! ❤️

Please consider sharing this post. We are always looking for new stories, voices, and supporters.

Share Bipolar Biweekly

I would like to start this post by introducing myself. My name is Jenna, I have bipolar type 1 with psychosis, and I do humanitarian aid work in Africa. I have lived in 5 countries, and been severely mentally ill in 3 additional ones. I try to write about my experiences from my heart, because Past Me would have really benefited from reading about Current Me. This article and those I plan to write after it are letters to my depressed self, Depressed Me, and to all the people who have just been diagnosed with this illness. I want my memories to serve a purpose. 

Having experienced a six-month psychotic manic episode, I have lots of memories that feel like dreams. There is another, Dream Jenna, who lived in Prague, didn’t have bipolar disorder, and had certain special people in her life. Dream Jenna was a real woman, who really did live in Prague and somewhat unbelievably, literally didn’t know what bipolar disorder was. But like everything from that part of my life, it feels like a dream now. 

One of those dreamy memories is from the first week of my manic episode, when I impulsively and abruptly left my romantic relationship and entered into a different one that transcended time and space - my relationship with Nina Simone. 

After moving out of the flat where my partner and I had lived for three years, I rented a place on airbnb that had a big balcony overlooking Sekaninova street. I would spend what felt like all day - and what really was most of the night, because I didn’t sleep - chain smoking on this balcony, having delusional “realizations” and “remembering” events that never happened. It was here that I discovered Nina. I know, I was late to the party. 

Nina and I have a lot in common, as it turns out. We share a serious mental illness, and both watched it destroy many relationships in our lives. We both self-medicated with substances, and would both later go on to struggle with side effects of prescribed medication. We can both turn on the charm and fill a room with joyous energy - on a good day. We are also both deeply political. I learned all this because on the third sleepless night of my manic episode, around 1:00 AM, I watched a documentary about her life, called “What Happened, Miss Simone?” I would watch and learn what did happen to her, but in a stroke of truly incredible irony, I had no idea at that moment the same thing was happening to me. God is the most poetic screenwriter of all. 

One of the most impactful things in my recovery has been finding role models - people who did not let bipolar disorder stop them from excelling at something. Some of these role models I am privileged to now call friends after working through support groups together. I have met and read about medical researchers, actresses, musicians, basketball coaches, executives, and other “fully functioning” adults. 

Because that was my biggest fear upon diagnosis - that I would never be a fully functioning adult again. At my partial hospitalization program, an older woman who had bipolar disorder since she was 16 pulled me aside upon learning my diagnosis and started explaining how to get disability benefits. I was horrified. I know she meant well, but she assumed I would accept a life of reliance on others. She wasn’t the only one who gave me this message: the stories I read online all seemed to be about people who had to shrink their dreams.

I would instead stay with parents for a year, get a job as a cashier at a pharmacy, and dip one toe at a time back into adult life. I know there’s nothing wrong with relying on a social safety net when you need it, but I had heard so many stories of people living smaller, less ambitious, “less stressful” lives after their diagnosis, that it felt like giving something up. 

I had an 8-year career as a humanitarian aid worker prior to my onset of symptoms. I was determined to return, and I am proud to say I did a year later. It was the hardest year of my life, but it has not defined my life. There are certain things I know I cannot do - mainly I cannot accept a job in a remote location where I won’t be able to get my medications. And serving in a post like that was one of my dreams, so there was a process of letting go of this. I also would no longer pass the medical clearance for the Peace Corps, or the US Foreign Service. But I still manage to see the world and watch how my hard work benefits people. 

I still listen to Nina every time I am on a long flight or alone in a hotel. While I was psychotic, I didn’t believe I was sick, but now that I know what happened, I feel my voice in hers. When she sings “please don’t let me be misunderstood” I am begging with her - begging the new people in my life to be open-minded, and the ones I lost to be understanding. Her deep voice and commanding presence give me confidence. She was wildly talented, politically impactful, and a rebel among her own generation. And bipolar disorder had nothing to do with this. 

She was not one of the tragic statistics who took her own life as a result of depression. She lived to be 70 years old, spending her old age in a beautiful town in the south of France. I can’t wait to reach those golden years, too. Perhaps in France, or in Maine. Or in Albania. Or in Lebanon. Or Slovenia. Or Switzerland…

TL;DR - Find role models and never shrink your dreams. 

Eat and feed are similar words. They mean mostly the same thing. They are often used interchangeably, in the same breath. Both have an etymology of Germanic origins, which through iterations of Old English and Dutch, have resulted in terminology to describe the most basic functions of consuming to sustain oneself. 

But as such, they are different words. Eat is demanding. It is active. Functional. You eat to get through the day so your stomach doesn’t growl and your head doesn’t spin. You eat when you are hungry and need to satiate yourself for the time being. Your mother tells you to eat, her voice straining, when you are a child and dinner is more than unappetizing. 

Feed is different, still, from Eat. There is compassion in the word feed — the care of nourishing yourself and the people you love, with food. You feed yourself to savor taste and texture and the experience of a meal. You feed others to cherish this food in their presence. A dear friend who is a chef delightfully describes cooking and feeding both yourself and others as “intimate,” which it is; feeding yourself and others is a simple act of quiet, private love. 

We eat to stay alive. We feed to build and sustain connection, community, and culture through food, cooking, and the time spent together at meals.

In July, I found myself alive, but not willingly. A daily antipsychotic medication I had been prescribed seven years ago, when I was sixteen, suddenly and inexplicably plummeted me into the depths of thick, viscous depression. I developed involuntary twitching in my face, a long-term effect of taking antipsychotics. The twitching can be permanent. The inside of my lips developed aching sores as my mouth rubbed and puckered around my grinding teeth. I cracked a tooth after grinding my teeth too hard for so long. I chewed gum and talked as often as I could to disguise the uncomfortable and odd movements. I damned my body, as I have always done, for betraying me.

I stopped taking the antipsychotic. I started taking a new medication, a mood stabilizer. It works, mostly. 

Another common long-term effect of antipsychotics is weight gain and hunger. I have experienced both of these. I became not just an emotional eater, but a compulsory one who had certain rituals to eat more and more of certain foods. I ate quickly, often embarrassed at being the first person at the table done eating. Upon beginning the new medication, I noticed that I didn’t crave food, nor the certain routines of eating, nor feel the endless need to eat, and eat, and eat. 

I had gained about eighty pounds on the antipsychotic by the time I stopped taking it. When I was admitted to an inpatient psychiatric hospital in late October, I had lost, in the span of a few months, about fifteen percent of my body weight. In the midst of sobbing in the crisis center, I told the nurse who took my vitals that I can always stand to lose some weight, anyways.

Cooking, for myself and others, is nothing short of a joy. It is inherently social — not only is food nourishing for my physical being but for my friendships and romances and relationships with my family. I cooked for my parents and sister when we were quarantined early in the pandemic to take the stress of feeding a family off of my mother. Now, I throw dinner parties and invite cherished friends who I want to feed. I split dinners with my roommate when I make more than enough for myself. I bring focaccia to a housewarming party, a strawberry dutch baby to a friend working at a bookstore, a bastardized pasta salad to a backyard cookout. My memories of others are marked by the meals we share.

I learned to cook while I was in college. In fraught attempts to lose weight, I often committed to extreme diets that more or less worked; usually less, because losing weight on the antipsychotic was as painfully slow as pulling teeth. One of these diets was a keto diet. For months at a time, I would cut out as many carbohydrates and sugar as I could from what I ate, replacing ingredients with alternatives and looking for recipes with high protein and fat contents. As a college student, purchasing ready-made keto food was not in my budget, if it was even available in the grocery store, so I cooked nearly every meal I ate to minimize the carbohydrates and sugar; while these diets always ended in my eventual return to a more normal diet and immediately gaining every pound back, I retained knowledge of basic cooking skills that I could continue from. 

I have also since learned how to shop for foods that nourish your body properly. I avoid refined and processed oils and sugars, low-fat dairy products, white bread, most frozen foods, anything “instant,” and anything that could be easy to snack on for the sake of making myself cook at home instead of grazing. I stock up on fresh produce, fatty fish, sausages from the butcher, sourdough bread, whole milk and cheese, plain greek yogurt, fermented foods like kimchi and tinned seafood, fresh pasta, sea salt, and excessive quantities of good, rich, bright olive oil. I cut costs elsewhere in my life to pay for nice, good-quality ingredients to cook and feed myself with.

I often share my cooking online to extend this into the digital realm. I have documented years of meals. Some are better than others. Some are more or less visually appealing. All have nourished me, left me full, were learning experiences in the practice of cooking, and have connected me with people online. I share these meals and recipes candidly on my Instagram. Cooking on social media for a virtual community is, obviously, different from cooking for someone in reality, but the small interactions from compliments to critiques weave an ever-strengthened web of social engagement centered around the practice of feeding for one or for all.

My relationship with eating changed after I started the new medication. Without purposefully restricting myself, I consumed a meal a day, usually less; most of my calories were either from eating a social meal at a restaurant or from alcohol. I stopped having the energy to grocery shop, and in turn, stopped cooking daily as I lost the will and happiness in doing it; this should have been a canary in the coal mine that I was truly unwell. My speed of eating slowed to the point of me struggling to finish a meal, long after the dishes were cleared and the next course had arrived. What I did eat for meals included kalamata olives straight from the jar, tinned sardines with a fork, random granola bars from the CVS a few blocks from my office, single apples I threw in my tote bag, a little bit of half-and-half in a cup of coffee.

I longed for being able to eat, and my anger at myself grew when I couldn’t bring myself to eat, much less cook. I missed, desperately, the careful practice of cooking: the beloved trips to the grocery store, sourcing what I want to make from seasonal ingredients, the tactile sense of a knife prepping vegetables, the hot oil in a pan, the sounds, the smells that waft through the kitchen of my basement apartment, all of these small moments resulting in a meal. Something wonderful, fleeting, and soon, gone. I missed feeding both myself, and in turn, being able to show myself the same care, compassion, and intimate nurturing that I might to someone else I loved. 

Upon leaving the hospital at the beginning of November, I was hungry. Needless to say, the hospital food was bad, and my body lamented the lack of vegetables I was served and became lethargic from the sheer number of cellophane-wrapped muffins I had sadly consumed in my tenure there. I arrived home to no groceries in my fridge, as I had not shopped for food in weeks prior to my admission. 

Being released from the hospital is like standing at the base of a mountain, looking up to the faraway peak. I knew I had to put in the effort and energy to climb the mountain, representing my recovery from depression and years of untreated trauma that tormented me to the point of suicide. It is a daunting feat, and a part of me said that climbing wasn’t worth it; I’ll never really recover and I’ll always be burned by my past and my separate mental diagnoses. For me, making the choice to climb the mountain wasn’t necessarily an act of determination, but more a flight from the omnipresent fear of things getting bad again; in turn, I wanted to recover not just for myself, but so I could care in turn for my friends, my family, my partner, and other intrapersonal relationships. Recovery included many hours of intensive outpatient therapy, finding a long-term psychologist, continuing to adjust to my new medications, and finding joy in myself and the life I lead again. But these are bigger steps; they do not happen without making smaller ones, such as going to the grocery store and cooking yourself dinner.

I started feeding myself again. I took the time to decide what I wanted to eat, revel in the experience of cooking, and savored every bite of my meals. I felt a fullness I had forgotten for so long, not just in my stomach, but in my abilities to regulate my depression and function in my daily life. I felt proud of myself; I let myself feel proud of myself. I posted what I cooked to my Instagram. People noticed. My partner mentioned that not only were the meals I cooked good but I was excited and happy to spend some time in my day to feed myself. I don’t know if they know how much this small comment meant to me; for a person I care about to actively see me trying to care for myself through food and recognizing it. 

Food has been a constant sense of stability in my life when for much of my life, I did not have any sense of what stability was. Even in the throes of my most miserable experiences, I could eat: always shaking small packets of iodized salt and fake lemon onto hospital food, picking at the cantaloupe in a fruit salad during a funeral memorial service, chewing bites of pizza in the waiting room of a district courthouse. This is a privilege in itself. 

Despite everything, I am still alive. To stay alive, I eat. To live, I feed, which is even more of a privilege: not just to exist, but to be able to appreciate that existence and those within its confinements. 

In our first few times seeing each other, my partner brought me a pound or so of fresh oyster mushrooms they had grown. Our common philosophies of food and consumption have been a source of conversation for us. More recently, we started cooking together. They made me a fall roast of chorizo sausage, brussels sprouts, purple potatoes, and carrots. I made them sea scallops in browned butter and lemon juice and white wine vinegar with garlic and black kale. This past weekend we took to the task of cooking a duck egg frittata that satisfied every possible satiation of hunger after putting our bodies through a substance-fueled wringer the night before. I think I have shown them the magic of the Marcella Hazan tomato sauce (it doesn’t need garlic, babe, really!). 

Despite everything, I am considering living: who will I feed in this lifetime?

This essay began as an Instagram post I made in September after my partner brought me those aforementioned oyster mushrooms. This is a much-updated and elaborated-upon version of that essay.

Hunger For a Way Out is also the title of the 2020 album by post-punk band Sweeping Promises. You can listen to it here.

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And thank you for reading and subscribing and caring and feeling, anything :’) Audrey

What is one reason mental health matters to you?

It’s not widely understood yet (hopefully someday!) in our society that people with BPD who are accurately diagnosed and treated, and even those who struggle to find the safety of a diagnosis, can live fulfilling, productive lives and even love life. Just ask my family, my loved ones, my social and work communities, ask the person on the street! We are everywhere, we can be accepted and understood. Mental health matters to me because it’s a part of my family’s life, it can be fascinating, and the more we understand the science behind the disorder, the better off we as a society will be.

We might not thrive 100% of the time, but we are full of hope and joy.

What is one reason you have hope that mental health care can work?

Since my first outbreak in 1990 at the age of 29, the science and treatment of BPD undoubtedly have evolved. Although it’s clear that many people who are suffering wait months or years for a proper diagnosis, it’s widely reported that the time overall has shortened for people to be released from confinement to live functional, productive lives. My suffering and episodes were sporadic and mysterious, with many years of robust health in between. When my productive years were interrupted yet again, a dedicated, curious doctor took a stab at this unconventional pattern. She brought me the joy of a diagnosis of BPD —13 years later. It’s a tragedy that there are those in the world who continue to suffer when so much more could be done to educate the medical community and care for these patients.

What is one piece of advice you have for someone navigating their own mental health journey?

This is a tough one because as I’ve written, it took 13 years and many medical missteps (they were trying) to discover what was happening when my life would be interrupted by these mysterious, terrifying and disruptive episodes. Emphasis on terrifying in so many cases. At this stage in the scientific process, I would encourage and urge you as the patient (when/if you can) and strongly suggest to family members, even though it can be so daunting and exhausting, to read and research as much as possible. There are so, so many resources out there, and it behooves you to do the work. You may have a wonderful medical team, but there is so much more that you can learn and share. My daughter unearthed all sorts of resources for my son and me that we hadn’t discovered. Work as a family, as a team. You’ll get there, just do it.

Putting a Skittle in my pill bottle was a reaction to failed attempts to medicate me by at least five other psychiatrists.

I’ve always enjoyed Skittles, and they’ve always made me happy. The psychiatrists, on the other hand, had rarely made me feel better, unless they offered false hope that the medication they just prescribed would jumpstart some type of improvement. So, it felt natural to pair my antipsychotics with a colorful and safe alternative to modern medicine.

You’re probably not surprised to hear that my candied solution didn’t make the deep depression go away, and the storm clouds steered me back to the psychiatrists who I still didn’t believe had any answers for me. But it felt like nothing worked. Rather, I was so desperate to get better that I aimlessly sought answers from times when I was once happy — eating Skittles and watching a movie or popping them in my mouth after Little League practice.

I remember standing in my room, wearing the same light brown pullover I had worn for months, thinking I had officially lost my mind. I don’t know if, deep down, I believed I could change my condition, but mixing Skittles in my daily medication regimen gave me a momentary feeling of power and control.

Moments like these probably saved me from giving up entirely. Although sometimes it seemed like I was even more disconnected from everyone else in my life, the Skittles symbolized my desire to return — to relive the moments when stopping at a gas station and picking up Skittles was not part of my medical revolution, and rather a cheap snack that made my teeth squeak when I ate them.

Doing anything to take yourself away from your painful experience makes a difference. My family encouraged me to take walks, my therapist encouraged me to write, and my doctors encouraged me to closely examine my feelings when there was a medication change.

By distracting yourself and focusing on some form of recovery, you open up to the idea that not everything is lost.

Skittles sure as hell did not return me to a feeling of normalcy, but they did force me to remember the world I once lived in and how maybe it was possible to return. I was depressed for more than 200 days in one year, and for some reason, that one moment of a Skittle nestled in with my antipsychotics will always paint a vivid scene in my mind: perhaps one day I would taste the rainbow again, and not just lithium.

I’d like to offer some suggestions on supporting those going through mental health issues.

First and foremost, don’t try too hard. That probably sounds crazy. Are you telling me to give up? No. But it’s tempting to think that with enough effort, you can manipulate a difficult situation into one of recovery. It can feel like there must be something, the right thing, that you should be doing. Sometimes there isn’t anything concrete that you can do except be patient with your loved one and be patient with yourself.

Offering support is a careful balance of thoughtfulness and endurance. Be sure you are always listening and observing to seek what one may need. Because you often can’t see mental health illnesses, knowing what to do can be extraordinarily challenging.  How are you supposed to help with something you cannot see?

How are you supposed to listen if someone isn’t saying anything?

Remember, don’t try too hard. Admit to yourself that you feel, and probably are, powerless. Look to medical professionals - doctors, therapists, social workers - to grasp what signs to look out for during an episode. And, when you’ve done that, keep that list handy. Create a checklist of vital signs and symptoms to look out for: withdrawal, irritation, anger, etc.

I’d like to emphasize the importance of having a support system. It’s easier to relinquish control when a system has been implemented. I have a “team” of 6 or 7 people I need to prepare for my dangerously low mood - my doctor, therapist, family members, fiancee, and friends. It can feel a little demoralizing to be 26 years old and admit that I need a lot of help sometimes, but I try to remember that those with physical ailments need assistance, too.

My experience recovering from an Severe Mental Illness (SMI) is strongly tied to doing my best to celebrate the small victories.

In my most depressed state, I would wake, sleep, and eat in the same light-brown pullover. I could care less about what I was wearing or how I looked. When you are face to face with the idea of death, what does a shower do for you? I won’t see friends or family, and I don’t care what the neighbors think of me on my walk around the block with my head staring at my shuffling feet. Other than habit, there are zero reasons why I would want to shower. But, I know my Mom was celebrating deep down because she saw her son, severely sick and almost lifeless, complete a simple but productive task.

Just taking a shower is a vote for living, and it’s important as a caregiver to acknowledge, even if just to yourself, that something positive just occurred.

If you don’t try too hard, help build a support system, and celebrate small victories, you’re moving in the right direction.

During one of my episodes in 2016/2017, it took me nearly a year to see improvement and ultimately find the proper treatment. This leads me to my last point, be patient. Those struggling are most likely told to be patient over and over and over again. Whether it’s “be patient, we’ll find you a psychiatrist soon,” or “be patient; the medicine will kick in soon,” there is a constant lingering promise that soon it will all be fixed. It’s your responsibility as a caretaker, friend, or loved one, to be patient, too. I’ve tried 10 different medications, endured seven hospitalizations, and had lots of therapists and psychiatrists, and the most common request from all of these providers was to trust the process and be patient.

I met a man once, in a psychiatric ward in Virginia, who had tried committing suicide 24 times. In a group session, he said a piece of advice he’d learned from someone else: “Don’t give up 5 minutes before a miracle, but don’t expect a miracle to occur in 5 minutes.”

Consider this: If you hurry someone battling mental health to get better sooner so you yourself can feel better, you’ve broken the golden rule. Be patient and proactive, and be both very carefully. If you can implement these rules into your care routine for someone, then at the very least, you’ll reach the magic of empathy within the realm of mental health, something I’ll talk about later.

In summary:

Trying too hard is counterproductive

It’s OK to sit in silence if your loved one doesn’t want to talk

Help to build a support system

Celebrate small victories

It’s your responsibility to be patient, and proactive

I often share my fascination of the brain along with my incredible respect for psychiatrists worldwide. How do you accomplish “surgery of the brain” without ever seeing it?

The methodical and complicated assessments are critical. But, how do we get it right so that each individual achieves a wonderful chemical brain balance that can serve them for a lifetime? You simply cannot get it right all the time. Medication evaluation and changes throughout a lifetime are the norm. It takes great patient/doctor communication and awareness to changes in life events.

Potential hormonal fluctuations can significantly impact your brain health. The adjustments can be so subtle-it truly is an extraordinary case may be similar to some. Post-hysterectomy life has created my fair share of medicine challenges.

After a cancer scare and a wise decision to receive a full blown hysterectomy, my brain seemed to shift and percolate with a new chemistry. Being thrust into menopause has not only shocked my body-but more importantly, my brain.

After leaving college coaching, I am now learning to coach others’ and always myself to detect the subtleties of life and brain that can affect us all.

Since I am clearly not a medical expert, my life stories surrounding my bipolar disorder and the continuum of anxiety and depression included, are critical teachable moments.

Recently, I had issues with my lithium dosage. Since I have been using the medication for twenty-seven years change appeared likely. Kidneys can be sensitive to long term lithium use. Still, change is always daunting-especially when talking about “brain meds”. My stellar and brilliant psychiatrist made a simple suggestion. Can we keep my lithium stable and slightly increase my lamotrigine by 25 mg (titrating each week) to lift my dosage and allow for the medicines to work in concert, but just a different way? She always cleverly poses questions to me-as if I am the expert. I love that about her skills as a mentor. She has taught me so much.

As you might have guessed, this subtle change has made all the difference.

Just 25 mg! Turns out no titration was needed. The added 25 mg at night has worked perfectly. For now. Yep. For now.The brain is simply incredible. We must honor its twists and turns through brain chemistry challenges. It’s not perfect. But, it will be okay. We can do this-but never alone. Find your care team. Listen to your doc. Take your meds! And, welcome adjustments. And cherish those docs who marvel at the science and love getting it right. Not perfect. Not the same always. Just right. Perfectly.

First off, I must acknowledge my privileged healthcare journey. Yes, I’ve been hospitalized, but I have been fortunate to have access to top-notch hospitals and doctors. I have a loving and supportive family. I’m a white male, upper middle class.

From the first time we — my family — sought serious attention for some kind of treatment (can’t I just get a miracle pill??), it was clearly going to be a waiting game. Because the first doctors were unable to identify my correct diagnosis, my journey was complicated and frustrating.

From September 2016 until April 2017, I was hospitalized seven times. With each hospitalization, I learned a little bit more about myself.

With every new diagnosis, I began to look at myself through a different lens. For example, one of my early hospitalizations led to a splattering of diagnoses thrown at the wall with doctors hoping one would stick. It was devastating, infuriating and I couldn’t figure out how I’d gotten to that point. What happened, I would constantly ask. Why???

A flashback: I see myself walking out of my second hospitalization with a medical sheet describing my condition. Even as lifeless as I was on that day, I still had energy to believe furiously that it couldn’t be true. Thankfully, that day no longer holds power in my life. I’m not taking the same medication as when they thought I was anxious or narcissistic. I’m not doing the same Reddit searches like, “can you ever be happy if you have x,y or z?”

‍Life is different. Life is better. I am privileged to have the right playbook for treatment.

In those early days, I would become paranoid and distressed with the different labels. Would I always be narcissistic? Would my major depressive disorder keep me from being happy? Who would ever want to be in any type of relationship with me? My label of bipolar disorder is not better than any of what I mention above. My label of bipolar disorder is not better than any I’ve mentioned.

Six months after what seemed to be a death sentence, I was finally knighted with the new title, “Bipolar Type 2 Disorder.” The privilege of having the correct label didn't feel like anything worth celebrating. Yes, I am bipolar, so technically I have a disability, and that sucks. But getting to the point where I can be satisfied with my daily life, not feeling like a lab rat, is the goal.

Revolving diagnoses led me to feel like I had different identities. Those days of receiving revolving diagnoses led to a Jason Bourne experience: waking up every day searching through multiple identities handed to me by someone else.

Some people are lucky enough to get a proper diagnosis early. Some have to wait years and bounce around looking for help. I will never be nostalgic for the painful moments due to medical miscalculations, but I will forever be thankful to have that north star and to be in a position where my medical team is on the same page.

Many people I’ve met in psychiatric wards hold few of the privileged characteristics I am fortunate to possess. Whether it’s a socioeconomic disadvantage, or utter lack of familial support, all I can hope is that the friends I made within the hospital walls have finally found their label. A label that will unlock the opportunity for a better life and a more accurate playbook.

Dear Bipolar, 

Five years ago I would beat my fists against my head,

Trying to stop you from strangling my brain. 

Five years ago I would sit and count how many pills I had left in my bottle, 

And I’d calculate if it were enough to escape you. 

Five years ago I sat and observed the world, 

That I thought I’d lost because of your grip on me.

Five years ago,

I wasn’t me. 

I was you. 

I know you go beyond me. 

I know you attack people on the streets.

I know you attack movie stars. 

I know you attack families that don’t even know who you are yet. 

But four years ago I became more confident

Because I had stopped you from strangling my brain

Four years ago I stopped counting my pills, 

And counted the days since I started to feel better.

Four years ago I began to join the world again, 

And stopped just observing. 

Four years ago I was me, 

Not you.

I know you are part of me, not all of me. 

I know people on the streets can be healed.

I know movie stars can be healed.

I know families can come together and figure out who you are. 

Dear Bipolar, 

Five years ago I met you.

Four years ago I silenced you.

And now I know you are a big piece of me.

But only a piece.

Nothing more. 

Post-holiday Sunday thoughts. It seems that there’s a blurred reality regarding communication with young folks. I am learning about the silencing effects of pandemic consequences.

We used to draw from experience and share… “ When I was your age, I did this or this or this helped me or I felt like this…” Not so much the case anymore.

The pandemic has stripped the functionality of referent power a bit.

We did not go through a pandemic and lose our younger years of education. We still have full memories-elementary, junior high, high school and college. These “never-to-be-made” memories have consequences in private and public living. Our work spaces must keep this in mind. To enforce complete office work with long hours simulates the confined spaces of pandemic living. It can bring back the thoughts and anxieties of loss. Awful memories. Human connection is key. But so are spaces. Examine productivity and brain health. One approach does not serve all.

We are left to listen and listen and listen. Listen then lead.

To rise and create beauty out of the storm.

I just ran around McLean Hospital. It’s funny; a new running path led me toward an old, familiar place. My arrival to the McLean “campus” this time, however, was one filled with jubilation and euphoria — unlike my last adventure in October 2016.

McLean, or The Pavilion unit to be precise, is emblazoned in my life as a reminder that it’s possible to accomplish the seemingly impossible. But it was a grind.

In 2016, my grandmother generously footed the 5-figure bill at the premier facility because my family is privileged and capable of doing so. Names of the rich and famous were divulged in an attempt to lure patients by the promise of a diagnosis after two weeks of intense tests and sessions performed by only the very best doctors money could buy.

I couldn’t tell if I was staying at the Ritz or if I was trying to survive a stay in an insane asylum. There were no bars on the windows, no crickets in my sandwiches, or handcuffs locked to bed frames. The campus looked like a country club with manicured lawns, pristine woods and inviting patios that promised the perfect location for catching rays and reflecting on life. Appointments with psychiatrists were scheduled daily. Sporting bow ties and sleek suits, the prestigious doctors occupied offices with expensive artwork and resembled what I imagine Freud looked like back in the early-1800s.

Day Dreams of Dark Days

I believed McLean was desirable, offering everything one might want, and believe, to be a place of recovery and hope.

I remember being dropped off by my mom and dad, all of us expecting that in two weeks, I could make it through the day without wanting to commit suicide. I remember trying to watch a movie the first night in my room but being fixated on the clock. I remember being confused why time was moving so slowly as if somebody had slipped me a tab of LSD. I remember standing in the mirror looking back at myself, confused why I could only see a stranger. I remember reaching out to friends who had struggled with mental health, frantic that someone would say something, anything, that could lift the weight of pain from my body. I remember sobbing.

I remember staring at the pills my nurse would give me in that little white Dixie cup, praying to a god I wasn’t sure I believed in that the chemicals would either save me or kill me.

I remember sleeping like a baby and waking up as a zombie. I remember punching myself in the head repeatedly until the counselors had to restrain me. I remember the five-hour psychological testing I did with a PhD. student, jealous of his job that I never actually wanted.

I remember selecting my meals for the day, but not giving a shit because I had no appetite and thought each meal might be my last supper. I remember starting to feel better, and working to become friends with everybody, because if I could do it, so could they. I remember working with a psychiatrist who felt more like an investigator than a supporter. I remember Harvard Medical School being tattooed on every sign, and every business card as if they were the ones who lifted Jesus from the grave.

I remember the beautiful flowers that surrounded the campus and the dark stormy days that only existed in my mind. I remember feeling terrible because I had the best support system, yet I felt worse. I remember food lost its taste, and love became a myth.

I remember petitioning William & Mary to return to school, but not caring at all because I didn’t want to see anybody. I remember being my own ghost and feeling sure that I could see ghosts. I remember the compliments I had no energy to return, and the hugs I didn’t notice and couldn’t embrace.

I remember running through the woods, feeling physically fit, and mentally strained. I remember running through the woods and believing I would never get better.

Pacing the hallway alone, without any option to reach out to friends or family, was not the scenario I expected to find myself at 20 years old. Having used my 15 minutes of phone time, I wandered aimlessly, with no laces in my shoes or string in my hoodie. Even the fresh air was taken away from me. Just as I began to list the reasons why I had the right to be miserable, there was a shriek that left me unable to focus on myself, and unable to concentrate on the world that was moving forward without me.

The man, who could have been mistaken for an old man in a child’s frame, was screeching so loudly that the noise was bouncing off the walls, reminding me of someone lost within his own mind. Given that I felt alone - recently a friend had said he would visit, but unfortunately, his  exams took priority - I didn’t mind walking over to see what was going on. After all, I felt like I had more in common with someone struggling with schizophrenia than somebody outside the walls on their iPhone in their own living room, with strings in their hoodies.

As I approached him, his shouts settled into mumbling, and as I could tell he was not one of the “aggressive” patients, I decided to get more information. Naively, I thought I might be able to help, because hey, we were both dealing with  serious mental illness! I found myself lost in the moment as he described seeing monsters down the hallway and children chasing him. The colorful, yet scary, scene he described struck me hard, as the hallways were empty and as sickly sterile white as ever.

The day after I met Franklin I wrote a poem in the hospital outlining my experience and hopes for our future friendship.

On that frigid February night, the world felt colder than ever. Here I was, unable to communicate with people on the outside, while on the inside, I was unable to communicate with this man who was in need. Feeling like my community was shrinking left me even more determined to connect with Franklin, the man behind the illusions. But, it’s important to acknowledge that in his world, these were not illusions, they were real.

The night went by with no successful connection, other than the shared experience of the UV- lit hallways, and dialogues and demons struggling for space in our heads. I sat and wrote a poem the next day, because I felt maybe that was one way I could feel a connection with Franklin.

Mental health journeys align, again.

Nearly four years later, February no longer felt so cold. Rather, it was perhaps the warmest month I had felt in a while. Walking into my new role in the mental health field made me feel proud, officially improved, and optimistic about health care. I guess those hallways offered some type of path toward recovery. But, I often thought about Franklin and predicted his recovery was probably not going as well. How can you go from seeing monsters and feeling chased by children who you thought would kill you, to recovering? Aren’t these the people shown in movies and TV shows who never improve? Aren’t they the ones  who end up on the street? Aren’t these the type of people who drain the resources of the mental health system?

I had a strong desire for Franklin to improve. Of course, I hoped that everyone I crossed paths with in those hospitals and support groups would improve.

That first day of my mental health job, nearly four years  to the day, was the day I started to believe. Not because I finally breathed the fresh air once restricted from me, but because as I climbed those stairs to my new career, I opened the door, and there, pacing the hallways with a big smile on his face, was Franklin.

The first thing he said to me was “Nice to meet you.” There it was — confirmation that he had never made a connection with me. Maybe I didn't exist in his world. But at that moment, I didn’t care because now I was his counselor, and now, together, we both had the power to be free, breathe fresh air, and escape the neglected hallways.

I had never had such an intense connection with an individual who didn’t even know my name.

I will forever be grateful to Franklin for greeting me on the first day of work, welcoming me to my new journey.

Doing homework when severely depressed is an indescribable feeling. When nothing seems to matter anymore, putting effort toward anything seems like a waste of energy. At the lowest point in your life, you would expect nothing would be asked of you. But, that’s not how life works. Not for me at least. To improve, I had homework to do.

For the record, it took me a long time to come to this conclusion. For months, I shuffled my feet into therapists, psychiatrists, and other appointments with no intention of showing I cared to get better. I thought that if I looked soulless, providers would try harder to improve my situation. Maybe for some that was true, but reflecting on my time has helped me discover the necessity of buckling down for a short amount of time to get to the possibilities of why I felt like garbage. Worse than garbage, like an entire dump.

It is a harsh reality to learn that you must advocate for yourself when you horrendous.

To maximize your odds of recovery, you must prove to yourself, and others, that you are casting a vote for living.

Perhaps the hardest task, I recognize that, but somewhere from within it’s essential that you find the slightest drive to show you want to improve.

My grocery list of psychiatric diagnoses that never checked out. The accurate diagnosis would eventually follow after aggressive measures by my family and me. And, of course much homework, which you'll read about in another blog post.

Millions of people have improved from mental health illnesses, and at some point I’m sure a large percentage of that population has advocated for themselves. I’m not the only one.

I’ve identified three areas where advocacy was critical to my recovery:

Friends and family: I’m lucky to have a supportive network of friends and family. That said, because they are so helpful, I was asked many questions about how they could help. If I did not give helpful answers, it would be incredibly difficult for them to do any type of research to help. When I finally understood the importance of sharing my experience, and showing I wanted to improve, they helped me more effectively.

My psychiatrist: I had horrible experiences with several psychiatrists. They walked into appointments, usually when I was hospitalized, and would lazily ask me questions about my situation. The same questions I heard over, and over, and over again. “What meds are you on?” “Are you feeling suicidal?” “Do you have any side effects?” All important questions. But, if I sat there and responded to their questions without asking any of my own, I would usually walk out with a generalized plan for improvement. Once again, to improve my odds of recovery, I had to vouch for myself. “Why am I being prescribed Clozapine?” “Why are my meds not being adjusted when everything is still so horrible?” Don’t get me wrong, these psychiatrists are intelligent, trained, and have lots of experience. But each case is unique, and it’s your responsibility to get in the ring and fight until you’ve gotten the answers you need.

Yourself: Permit yourself to feel awful. Tell yourself life sucks because it’s the truth. Tell yourself this isn’t fair. Because it isn’t. And it’s not your fault. Nobody should be under the covers, suffering silently on a bright sunny day. So, don’t do anything if you have the luxury to check out slightly. However, when you walk into that office or take a call from your providers, do all that you can to yank yourself out of that state of mind. Make it count.

In hindsight, I think I made the mistake of shuffling my feet for too long, but it didn’t feel like a mistake at the time — it felt like survival. Just showing up to the appointments was a win.

You have a choice. On some days, your vote is just for living. It’s OK to consider showing up at an appointment as a win. But when you’re capable of voting to get better, try to find it within yourself to be your own best advocate.

Keeping it simple.

My story is straightforward: I have a severe mental illness.

Living with Bipolar Type 2 Disorder is multi-dimensional – it’s not just “good” or “bad” or “up” or “down” — and my chronic illness requires all kinds of support. While most of my days are full of love and excitement, I will forever be plagued by something that is neither my fault nor my choice.

My illness can destroy everything I love, which is why I created this website. I want to share with you why my experience living with Bipolar Type 2 Disorder fills me with pride. It may sound odd, but I’m much more proud of my ability to get through the dark days than I am to bask in the sunny ones.  It’s important to remember that I’ve gotten through the excruciating pain with my support network — let’s not try to fight the demons alone.

I want those experiencing mental health issues, or those helping them, to feel a source of pride, too. Being proud does not require feeling entirely better; perhaps you’ve taken a shower or finally made yourself breakfast. What matters most to me is that…

just as someone may get positive reinforcement for dealing with and struggling with a physical wound, so will someone fighting a battle within their mind.

As I write more and more on this site, you will gather anecdotes about my experience that you may or may not relate to. Because everyone has their unique story, please remember that what I write should not be considered advice. I’ve worked hard and continue to do so to learn what my mind and body need, and you will, or already have, too. I feel I understand and can relate to what most people who are struggling with mental illness are going through. After making it through seven hospitalizations, I’ve seen all sorts of family dynamics, relationship types, frustrations (and successes) with medicine.

And I’m grateful to have seen and heard success stories. I cannot say I’ve been in your shoes, but I do know what it feels like to love life one day and want to die the next.

I’m sharing my thoughts with you because I believe mental health is an excruciating process to navigate, and working through your feelings and emotions should be praised. I’ll explain my cycling moods and the horrible situations I’ve been in, including an emergency evacuation from a foreign country and a psychiatric stay in another foreign country.

For now, please know I am always happy to talk with anyone trying to navigate life with a mental health issue; there’s no feeling too big or too small to talk through or to be proud of.