Big, bellowing laughter danced through empty hallways as an out-of-tune piano croaked out an answer: “Behold Now, Praise the Lord.” A bare-body, one aged seven and twenty-four, bursted through imagined barricades in victorious song. Random texts and phone calls were delivered to friends from another life. Shouts rang in ears long after the night had ended. An anxious pup trailed behind the mysterious woman/girl-child throughout the night and into the morning, wondering when she might return; in the meantime, she believed — she felt — she knew — that she and the creature were speaking a language that only the two of them could understand.

Tears flooded countenances, for the laughter was not loud enough to cover decades of hurting. And a boy, also young in spirit and old in heart, rose with the girl the next morning and assured her that he was going to take her somewhere to ensure that there would be no more sleepless nights. All would be okay. 

~~~

Such were some scenes from an episode of mania — an awakening of sorts, a chapter closing, a bird sprouting its wings. Because if we’re going to call it manic, a word that connotes a sort of wild craze, a lack of control, a maniac — we must also see it for all of its pure, chaotic goodness. All of the ways it was rooted in self-expression just as much as it was self-doubt. And also a crazy lack of grasp on ego…but that’s besides the point. 

And this is the first misconception I’d love to tackle when it comes to Bipolar Disorder. I don’t know if I’ve yet thought of a different term to use, but when I was told —  when I knew — that I was having a “manic” episode, I was understandably afraid. Less of the episode itself and more of the way westernization made me feel about it. Did I need help? Absolutely. And I’m so grateful for modern medicine, and for smart doctors who know how to handle just about any and everything. That’s not the critique I have about it. 

Throughout the episode, mean words rang in the back of my head. They could have been, and probably were, my own. But even so, I had to learn them from somewhere. When I thought to myself, “She’s manic,” I also heard a couple of other complimentary phrases: “She’s crazy. She’s lost it. She’s certifiably insane.”

And so, I would welcome thoughts as to how to characterize a manic episode – a moment of escape from self. A distancing from reality. A spiritual awakening? Seriously, let me know any other ways you’ve heard it referred to as, or thought of yourself. Also, this doesn’t just apply to Bipolar Disorder. I can think of so many words for other mental health conditions that can be triggering. Language is so important, and I, even as a writer who obsesses over words, never fully grasped its importance until I felt ostracized from a world that was only mine to know. 

As I grappled with all of this during the early stages of everything, I started writing letters from the hospital. I showed my psychiatrist. “Letters from the Insane Asylum,” I joked. “I even crossed it out and put ‘Mental Health Hospital.’”

He cleared his throat. “Actually, I’d prefer you say Behavioral Health Unit.”

I followed suit, smiling at his correction. Look at me, so progressive, having lived through some sort of big, traumatic breakthrough and still defining myself through an illness rather than a moment of misbehavior. 

The truth is, when I wrote “Mental Health Hospital,” I was insinuating that when you look at me and everyone in that unit, our mental health condition is glued to our identity. In reality, I am not defined by having Bipolar Disorder. I am a person experiencing Bipolar Disorder. A person living with mental illness. Not a mentally ill individual. I have to correct myself every time I start to say, “I am Linnea and I am Bipolar,” because, dude, what? I am also Linnea and I’m a classical singer! I’m Linnea and I love writing! I’m Linnea and I’m going to be okay!

By putting my mental illness at the forefront of any introduction, I am immediately giving it more power than it deserves. In actuality, I am being treated for it! I have the medication now to make this disorder feel less big and scary. 

Even still, the reason I am writing and publishing this for anyone’s eyeballs to see, is because I spent so long feeling shame by admitting weakness in my brain. I have known for a long while that my brain was hurting. That my brain was pushing itself beyond compare to keep up with neurotypical brains — even if I was already reaching those standards and excelling, but shaming myself all the while. My psychiatrist said it best: The wheels of a Mazerati but the breaks of a tricycle. 

And so, even if my mental illness does not define me, it is part of me, for the foreseeable future, and perhaps for the rest of my life. 

That is why I say to you these words now: 

I am Linnea, and I am experiencing treatment for my Bipolar Disorder. 

It sounds big and complicated. It’s really not.

My brain waves experience highs and lows the way yours does. The only difference is that mine may get pretty high up there, and also pretty low down there. So, I have medicine to help stabilize me.

I am proud of myself for admitting my disability.

Because while I may be disabled in some forms of the word, my brain is also responsible for a lot of really cool, creative things. 

I have a place in this world. Right next to you.

If you have ever felt lost, or unsure, or left out, or unwanted. 

I promise you that help is on its way. Speak up. Ask for it. 

You are all the braver, all the healthier, for doing so. 

❤