Identity Theft

Along with your diagnosis of bipolar disorder, you will receive, free of charge, a brand new identity. An identity in which you are dangerous. Irrational. Unpredictable. Subhuman. "Other." Keeping your old identity is not an option.

My introduction to this form of diagnostic identity theft came about a week after I first heard the words "bipolar disorder" applied to me by a doctor who knew nothing about me or my life. I was on a business trip for the day with two people from my office--a fellow attorney and a C.P.A. Though they are both at the top of the org chart, being political appointees and all, we're equals in terms of experience and ability and I'm only about a half step below them on the office food chain. We're colleagues of long standing and we have, or had at the time, a comfortable, easy working relationship.

After being on the road for about three hours we arrived at our destination a bit early and stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall for some breakfast burritos. As we sat at the rickety, oil-cloth clad table and munched our hand-held burritos, the conversation, out of the blue, took a turn to bipolar disorder. Attorney Colleague, whose son is a city police officer, began talking about how many drunk/domestic disturbance calls his son had to respond to on the graveyard shift. "You know what the problem is," he exclaimed, "they're all bipolar!" After twenty-five years of practicing law I have a poker face that's second to none, and it took everything I had to keep it in place.

"They're bipolar," he continued authoritatively, "and they go off their meds and they get drunk and they just lose control. If bipolars would just stay on their meds we wouldn't need so many cops."

C.P.A. Colleague agreed enthusiastically. "When I owned my firm," she said, "I had an office manager named John. Well, he had chronic back problems and had to take lots of meds. He always complained that the women he dated didn't understand his medical problems. Then one day he told me he met a woman that also had to take meds every day, so finally there was somebody who could understand. So I asked him what kind of meds she took, and he told me she took lithium. And I told him 'John! She's bipolar! You should RUN, not walk to get away from her!'"

The conversation continued along that road, but I was shocked into a daze and I don't really remember much after the 'run, not walk part'. This was my new identity, according to two people I liked and respected. My old identity had been stolen by a prescription drug and a psychiatrist and had been replaced by this new person from whom others should 'run, not walk' to get away.

I somehow managed to get through our meeting and the three hour ride back to the office, even making conversation on an as-needed basis. Then I went home and proceeded to get good and properly drunk. Contrary to the what would be expected from one with my diagnosis, I did not assault anybody, but when I was about 1.5 sheets to the wind I called the executive director of my agency, A.K.A. "The Boss," at home, for the first, and only time. I told him what had happened. I swore, copiously and creatively. Swearing is rare for me, and it got his attention. He's a good guy, and he listened and asked me what I wanted. I told him I only wanted to make sure that I never had to listen to that kind of conversation again. Nothing more. I told him that I was going to take a sick day the next day and go on a long bike ride. I wanted him to talk to Attorney Colleague and C.P.A. Colleague and make sure that it never happened again, and make sure that they knew that my diagnosis was highly confidential.

And I said to specifically tell them that I did not want them to come apologize to me.

The next day, after about 65 miles on the bike I felt somewhat better. Though it's hard to to ride a bicycle when you're periodically in tears I got up and down a couple steep hills mentally and physically. I went back to the office and to work the next day. That was two years ago this month.

I still work with Attorney Colleague and C.P.A. Colleague. Tensions were pretty high for a few months. They both made me pretty nervous. I can only imagine how they felt in my presence. But people of good will can work things out, and slowly, over time we have.

My only regret about how I handled the situation is that I told The Boss that I did not want either of them to apologize to me. The truth of the matter is, they're both good people and I'm sure they both would have apologized, in all sincerity, had I not speciically refused an apology. But I was upset to the point that if they had apologized, I would have just started crying. And I seriously did not want to do that. Later I realized that things would have gotten back to normal much sooner if they had been able to sit and talk to me about it. An apology serves a social function, I think, if given and received with an open heart and mind. It allows people to begin to repair relationships.

And now, two years later, C.P.A. Colleague has recommended me for another, possibly much better position in government. Tomorrow morning I go to breakfast to discuss that possibility with another "Boss." I think, over time, I've changed her mind about "run, not walk."

This Explains Everything

LosingThe family and friends

The most painful thing for me about being labeled as a nutter is the damage it's done to my relationship with family and friends. WWhen family and friends hear that a medical doctor has branded you with a label of a major mental illness such as bipolar disorder, well, their perception of you changes. When their perception changes, then shared reality changes. And suddenly you become "crazy" in their eyes. Your normally skewed sense of humor, which everybody used to enjoy, will become evidence of your mental illness. Your sister will look at you, shake her head, and say "you're just not right." Your asshole brother will find a justification for his assholery--It's not him, it's that his mentally ill sister misinterprets things. It's a really convenient way for people to blow you off and demean you--"Well, she's a nutter, you know. Her perceptions aren't valid. We're all okay, it's just that she's not." There's no possibility of discussing with these people the high probabliltiy that this diagnosis is incorrect and insupportabe.

And so you begin your descent from valid personhood to nutter to be ingnored, perhaps even pitied, most certainly condenscended to. All with the magic wave of a psychiatrists hand you lose that which is most valuable...your distinct, valid, perceptions of reality. You lose your sense of self. You become sub-human because the mind makes us human, and if a psychatrist has declared on nothing but her subjective value judgments that your behaviour is aberant, then you are fucked if you believeit. You are fucked today and every day that follows. You just have to rebel, revolt, deny, run and hide from this corruption.

Psychiatry is an evil that presents itself softly and gently to many of us. It presents itself in the guise of a healer that wants to ease our sorrows. We suffer, undoubtedly, psychiatry offers us freedom for suffering by giving us slavery to drugs. Pyschiatry teaches that our thoughts and visions are dangerous and should be quashed.

I propose a different way. Psychiatry could help, though I doubt it willl ever be open minded enough to do so. I'll explain this in more detail in future posts. Nutters are a special breed, and they should be nurtured.

Losing Meg

Today marks nine years since Meg died. She died on her 51st birthday after battling ovarian cancer for over 6 years. I still miss her terribly.