Busting Out of the Stigma of Bipolar Disorder

An Excerpt From ‘Bipolar: A Gift of Thorns’

‘Bipolar: A Gift of Thorns’ by Dale Zurawski | Photo: Courtesy

Before I published my memoir, Bipolar: A Gift of Thorns, I was ashamed to tell people I was writing about my experience being bipolar.

For me, it was difficult to overcome the stigma associated with having a mental illness. Twenty years ago, when I was first diagnosed with a bipolar disorder, it took me a few months to tell my husband. It took eight years to write the book because of the shame I felt. After the book was published, each time I mentioned the title, it got easier to admit I was bipolar. Now, I am not embarrassed.

From the comments and reactions I received after Bipolar: A Gift of Thorns was published, I realized just how much my story has helped others. Frequently, people admit they are bipolar or have a friend or family member who is. All families have mental health problems just like they have physical ailments. We need to talk openly about mental health.

May is Mental Health Awareness Month, and it is the time to have these conversations. Only by talking about mental illness can we decrease the stigma. I hope this excerpt from Bipolar: A Gift of Thorns will help you start that conversation.

Excerpt from Bipolar: A Gift of Thorns

By Dale Zurawski

Santa Barbara, CA, 2004: I first found out I was bipolar when I went to see Dr. Dennis Penter, a psychiatrist at Sansum Psychiatry. I had just learned Geoff, my husband, had cancer, the kind that kills quickly.

“So, why did you come to see me?” Dennis asked. He knew Geoff had cancer, but not why I came to see him for psychiatric help.

‘I don’t think I can handle Geoff dying. I’m not worried about Geoff or the children. I’m worried about myself. I’m scared.’ I told him.

After 45 minutes of asking probing questions about my past, my family’s history of mental illness, and my sleep patterns, Dennis stopped asking questions.

“Dale, I am pretty sure you have a Bipolar II Disorder. Do you know what that means?”

“Not really. I’ve heard the word before,” I said.

As I let out a long breath and relaxed in my chair. I felt relieved. Even before Dennis said bipolar, I knew something wasn’t right. I could never put my finger on it because I didn’t have a word for it. There was a balloon filled with air inside me, and Dennis had popped it. By knowing what was wrong and giving it a name. Years would go by before I knew all the implications of being bipolar. But at that moment, I was happy.

“Is there a Bipolar I or III?” I asked him.

“Bipolar I is if you have been hospitalized, either voluntarily or by someone else. There isn’t a Bipolar III.”

This struck me as a bit black and white. So there were only two levels, committed to a hospital or running amuck?

Can a psychiatrist make a diagnosis after just 45 minutes of talking with the patient? I think so. First, before seeing me, Dennis had a lifetime of professional experience to draw upon. Also, he had known me for years. We saw each other weekly. It might have been unethical for him to be my shrink, but it was helpful at the same time.

Finally, I had a diagnosis that explained my questionable past actions. My acting out was due to a bipolar disorder. I just didn’t know it until now.

“First, let’s get you a good night’s sleep. You should be sleeping seven and a half to eight hours every night. I’m giving you a prescription for Klonopin. Take it three times a day, when you first get up, at noon, and at bedtime. I want you to come back in a month.”

He offered me a yellow three-by-four-inch piece of paper. More sleep sounded good. I thought he was giving me something like an antibiotic, which cured bipolar disorders.

I stood, took the prescription from him, and noticed his illegible writing, “How long do I take it, ten days, two weeks?”

“Well, let’s just see how things go,” he answered as he stood and walked me to the door.

After leaving his office, I marched over to the receptionist with my head held high. I told her I needed an appointment a month from now. Thinking Dennis had figured it out, a smile wrapped around my face. Dennis knew what was wrong with me. There was a simple answer, and he had something to fix it. The satisfaction was better than a good massage. I had been relieved of a lifetime affliction. My fear that I was different, and always would be, had been wrong. But walking to the car with the prescription tucked inside my purse, I started to feel a little less sure of myself.

A bipolar disorder was like being on the high side of a teeter-totter. Unfortunately, what went up had to come down. When the person on the other end of the board jumped off, I hit the dirt with a thump.

At home, it didn’t take long for the shame to kick in. Bipolar was a derogatory insinuation. I was embarrassed. There was something wrong with me. I heard “out of her mind and out of control.”

Maybe insane was too strong of a word, but mentally ill was not. I was sick like my dad. My nerves were strung too tight. Sometimes, I, too, exploded with anger and took it out on my family, just like my father exploded with rage and took it out on us.

I often yelled uncontrollably at my children for minor infractions, like not hanging their backpacks on the hooks after school, spilling a glass of milk, or talking back to me. I was a pressure cooker blowing its plug, a stream of harsh words rushing out of my mouth that relieved the pressure inside. Geoff, thankfully, was always quick to smooth things over and start to integrate me back into the family. He would say something like, okay, let’s get back to eating dinner. But the damage was done. By me. By my mental illness.

At home that day, I dismissed doubts about my past actions and went through the routine of being a busy mom. I started dinner, tried to remember where the kids were, and reviewed my calendar for tomorrow.

When Geoff got home from work, he asked, “How did your appointment with Dennis go?”

My mood was more business-like than chatty. I was emotionally exhausted and drained.

“It went fine. I told Dennis I felt like I might lose it dealing with your cancer and life. Can you set the table?”

I focused on dinner and processing what I’d told Dennis. I had never mentioned the extent of my drug use and promiscuity. Not even Geoff knew my father had beaten me or that I grew up ashamed of not having a father.

Geoff seemed only mildly interested in my therapy session. He had his own worries, mainly staying alive and managing his group at Amgen. He didn’t consider me seeing Dennis any big deal. Geoff liked me ‘high strung’; he was energetic himself. Despite my outbursts, he thought I was fine the way I was. He accepted the package deal. My outbursts and I were two sides of the same coin.

I didn’t share the details of my therapy session with Geoff. I didn’t bring him in on the medication Dennis prescribed because it revealed that my mind needed to be fixed. A bipolar diagnosis meant I was crazy. I wanted to keep the facade of being normal. Geoff didn’t know the severity of my father’s abuse or the details of my college years. I felt ashamed of my past behavior.

Geoff knew I’d dated questionable characters before him, bodybuilders with no brains, drunk rugby players, and cowboys with names like Smokey. I hadn’t told him all the details. I didn’t want him thinking he’d married some slut. Dennis had an explanation for the hundreds of guys I had slept with, but the reason seemed worse than the crime. I was bipolar. Although promiscuity wasn’t always associated with being bipolar, it was nestled into my bipolar mania.

I didn’t realize all this after my first meeting with Dennis. I also didn’t know I had a life sentence of daily medication. When I swallowed my first orange Klonopin, I hoped I’d “get well” from being bipolar, like recovering from an infection or pneumonia. Bipolar was part of me. No matter what medication I took, how long I took it, or how deep I went into therapy, being bipolar remained.

Editor’s Note: May is Mental Health Awareness Month, an annual observance designed to “highlight the importance of mental wellbeing, educate the public, reduce stigma and promote support for those affected by mental health conditions. Each year, individuals and organizations come together to raise awareness and advocate for better mental health care and resources.” There are many resources available in Santa Barbara to support Mental Health services. Here is a link from the County of Santa Barbara, which is a good place to start.