There is a unique brand of strength that emerges from intense vulnerability. Growing up, I hated being vulnerable. I feared how others might see my broken parts: my depression, my bipolar misdiagnosis, my anxiety, my sensory sensitivities. I had a wonderful support system in my family and in the larger community of my synagogue. And yet, the most terrifying thing I could think of, at that time, was being honest with others about my pain.
A few months ago, one of my favorite true crime podcasts, Last Podcast on the Left, did an episode on Pyromania (stay with me, it'll be relevant). While discussing the correlations between neurodivergence (ADHD and Autism Spectrum Disorder) and pyromania (the obsessive desire to start fires), Marcus Parks, one of the hosts, opened up about his own neurodivergence.
Marcus had always been open about living with mental illness, Bipolar disorder in particular. He often repeated the phrase, "mental illness is not your fault, but it is your responsibility," and I always resonated with that. But during this episode, he spoke about his two decade long misdiagnosis struggle and being only recently re-diagnosed, correctly, with severe ADHD.
He talked about how many ADHD symptoms, such as hyper focus, can mimic bipolar mania. How severe ADHD can be incredibly debilitating, and how he had spent 20 years treating the wrong disorder. I was in shock, and nearly in tears.
Because that happened to me. I was diagnosed at age 12, incorrectly, with Bipolar II. It wasn't until I was 17 that we even found a doctor ready to start from scratch and really figure out what I was struggling with. Those four years felt like Hell. The medications used to treat bipolar disorder have severe side effects, including lethargy, tremors, and slurred speech. For years I felt more comfortable being silent, despite having so much to say. When the UCLA doctors finally said those words, "Bipolar tentative", I felt a wave of relief.
This is not to say that Bipolar is a bad diagnosis or in any way something shameful. As Marcus said in the episode, he knows many people with bipolar who have done wonderful things and achieved so much despite everything. It's just that bipolar is not what he has, or what I have.
I have so many mixed feelings about the biomedical model for treating mental illness. There are years of my life I will never get back due to overmedication. It took me so incredibly long to "unmask", a term for neurodivergent people to describe the experience of living authentically. It took years to trust myself into being whole, to not break myself to fit into neurotypical standards. But I am who I am today because of what I have suffered, and because of the strength I have built, slowly, over time.
Every time someone messages me or talks to me about how my blog resonates with them, my soul is lifted. Every time I learn about others suffering the same things I do, finding strength in the same broken pieces, I feel less alone. I gain strength to fight another battle, to live another day.
I spent years, decades even, hiding myself away. I felt so much shame for who I was, and so much worry about what I was not. I have suffered for too long in silence. It is time to heal out loud.
And so, I am shouting from the rooftops: I AM HERE. I was here in the bad times and I will be here for all the good that is in store. I am listening, I am embracing, I am accepting-- all that I am, all I will be, and every connection I build through truth, through life, and through love.
