A while back I wrote on a campaign that was working to change the face of mental illness. It presented real, live people with mental illness that challenged the assumptions that people might have about mental illness. Namely that we’re all unemployed, unsuccessful, useless crazy people. Now, I did have some problems with the campaign but I applauded their attempt to get people to realize that mental illness is about real people and that each person with a mental illness is an individual with all the possibilities of any other individual in our society. And I found myself putting my own face on mental illness, bipolar disorder, just the other day. I did it by using the phrase, “. . . people with bipolar, just like me.”

I hear from people over and over again how they can’t reach out to others because they are too sick. Normally this is because the person is too depressed, but it could be because the person is too anxious or in some other mood state. And I know for myself that asking for help can be the scariest thing in the world, but if we ever hope to turn the tide, if we ever hope to beat back bipolar, we need to be able to reach outside ourselves for help and support.

After reading my last post, Starting Conversations About Bipolar Disorder (When You Don’t Have Bipolar), a commenter requested a similar piece on how to start conversations on mental illness when you do have bipolar disorder. I thought this was a good question as it’s as hard for people with a mental illness to bring up this tough subject as it is for those around us. After all, we don’t want to frighten people or get into major emotional upset. So are there things to consider when bringing up bipolar disorder with people who don’t have a mental illness?

Mental illness is a daunting subject matter for anyone. Thinking of how to approach a conversation about bipolar disorder would scare the pants off of the most politically correct of animals. And yet conversations about mental illness must be had if we are to propagate understanding among those with a mental illness and among those who don’t. And it’s brave of someone, anyone, to want to start the conversation about bipolar disorder or another mental illness, knowing how much stigma is out there. But is there a “right” way to handle talking about mental illness?

In one year I write over 100 blog articles for Breaking Bipolar. I’m honoured to say that many people have responded to this writing and it has spawned many great conversations. Popular topics this year ranged from self-harm to passing down of bipolar to your kids to the understanding of mental illness. Check out these popular articles you might have missed.

In my last article I wrote about creating reasonable expectations for the holidays and how that can help your mental health. Today, I want to talk about the stress of holidays with family. Now, don’t get me wrong, family can be great, but more often than not, holidays cause a gathering of family members you both gel with and those you don’t and I hear from a lot of people that they hate such family gatherings. But why? Are family gatherings worse for people with a mental illness?

Since I’ve started writing for HealthyPlace I’ve learned a lot about what you’re not supposed to say about mental illness. Some classics are the word “crazy” and not referring to oneself as “bipolar” directly. In other words, I’m not allowed to say I’m a crazy bipolar. There are many other things I’m not allowed to say too. “Mental health” can only be used in some cases whereas “mental illness” must be used in others. And then there’s “behavioural health” and the myriad of rules around talking about suicide. One could get permanent writer’s block worrying about ticking off some group of people who care about some specific word. So I have a rule. I do what I want. And I tick off some people. It’s not on purpose; it’s just that if I didn’t, how in the heck would I write?

One of the problems with psychotherapy (and, keep in mind, I like psychotherapy) is that psychotherapists try to look for a cause for every emotion. And this seems reasonable. Or at least it does, to a person without a mental illness.

I’m a mental health writer and I have a mental illness, so, of course, I write about my mental illness. I write about my symptoms and the affect they have on my life. I write about their treatments and their success or lack thereof. I write about what it’s like to have bipolar disorder. And boy do people feel fine about judging me for it. Commonly people will say that I don’t have bipolar disorder (being, I’m sure, expert diagnosticians) or say that I’m an idiot (and whatnot) for trying the treatments I have. It’s gotten so bad, in fact, that some things I don’t like to talk about at all. People like to attack me for electroconvulsive therapy and vagus nerve stimulator use specifically. And I don’t like to talk about self-harm, because inevitably people yell about that. But I learned something earlier this week – not everyone judges people with a mental illness.

I’ve been writing about bipolar disorder and mental illness for nine years. Nine long years of pain and depression and episodes and hyperreality and desperation and description and explanation and exploration. And people still don’t get it. Even if you look at the past year – over 200 articles, there still seems to be nothing but a chasm between the mentally ill and so many of the mentally well. And I think this is because language is insufficient to express emotional pain and turmoil. We have good words for describing physical pain: radiating, hot, throbbing, sharp, achy and so on. But when it comes to emotional pain we’re “sad.” The same word applies when you drop your ice cream cone on the ground as when you’re so depressed that you can’t get out of bed. It’s not surprising that people don’t get what we’re talking about.