"Hiding the Crazy" by Nina Kaur

Sometimes I don’t like the way it sounds.  It used to sound worse.  The used to call it Manic Depression.  Some years ago, you were manically depressed.  Now you are bipolar.  Am I bipolar?  I mean I am, but am I really?

Yes.

Am I crazy?  That’s a very complicated question.

Until they come up with a nice fancy word like poetically disturbed genius to identify my disorder, I have to live with this label of bipolar.  But it’s not all of me.  Don’t define me by it.  I’m also highly educated and I like chocolate.  There’s more to me than this.   

I don’t mind disclosing my disease to my anonymous audience, I don’t even mind telling people I know.  But there are situations in which I have to hide it.

Like at work.  I’m a teacher and professor.  I do not proclaim that I have a mental disease to my students or my colleagues.  In fact I’m completely in the closet and fear losing my job if people find out.  I use a different name at work than I do in my blog and on Facebook.  However, it’s not impossible to make the connection. 

Why don’t I tell my employers?  Honestly, I don’t want them to think I’m incapable of doing my job.  It is illegal for them to fire me for having a mental illness, so I dare them to try, however maybe I’m a little ashamed.

Am I ashamed of who I am?

I mean I write about being bipolar with pride.  What am I afraid of? 

The stigma.  The way people go around saying things like, “I think that chick is bipolar, one minute she’s awesome the next she’s a total bitch.”  Being bipolar is much more complicated and sophisticated than being a bitch. 

Oh don’t get me wrong, I’ve been a bipolar bitch before.  I’ve been off my meds in the distant past and it’s not pretty.  However, I have had a long history of using medication, therapy and self-actualization to get me to a place of relative peace.

Yet still, EVERY morning I thank god when I get out of bed.  There were days I could not get out of bed for the life of me.  Then there were nights I could not sleep no matter how hard I tried.  Some days it is still very hard.  Very hard.  But I get through them with grace.

I don’t want to tell my boss that I didn’t want to come to work today, that it took every morsel of my being to get in the car and for a fleeting moment I thought about crashing that car.  I don’t want them to know my weaknesses.

I don’t tell my students I’m bipolar because I don’t want them to think less of me.  I know kids talk, about their teachers and their professors and they laugh and make fun of them.  I hate that fact.  I don’t want to give them another reason to laugh at me.

I make my kids laugh though, I’m a good teacher.  I would rather they laugh with me than at me.  Maybe I’m a little insecure.  I mean I’m not basing my opinion of myself on the opinion of a bunch of high school and college kids. 

But I do care what they think of me. 

I want respect. 

I can’t explain to them that madness and art are closely linked and that they may be mad too. Or can I?  The same way I don’t proclaim my condition at the supermarket when I’m frustrated and tired and just want to go home. 

When things get really tough I want to scream, “I’m fucking Bipolar PEOPLE!  I don’t think I can handle this!” in the baked goods isle of Kroger.  However I don’t scream, I keep to myself.  Not because I want to be “normal.”  I hate that word.

But maybe sometimes I want to fit in.  I want to be accepted. 

Most of all though, I want respect.

For now I will not write BIPOLAR on my Match.com profile.  But I will tell a guy sooner rather than later.  There is a part of me that wants to go public.   If I become a famous author I would love to be able to look at people and say, “I did this and I’m bipolar, you can do anything too.”

You can. 

nina