Memories from when you were ill can damage your recovery. The mind, your memory, has a funny way of pushing aside the bad bits: the time in hospital, the anguish, the search for reprieve. You sort of forget the acute pain. Hiding the memories from when you were ill invites irrational thoughts (like thinking you were never ever sick to begin with).

Accepting the diagnosis of mental illness can seem impossible. It hurts. It can shatter the sense of self you have acquired throughout your life. Pre-diagnosis, you might have felt that your personality was acquired, hard fought. You don't want to be anyone but you. Accepting you have a mental illness is initially terrifying.

Part of mental health self-care involves identifying potential triggers and avoiding them or, at the very least, preparing for the impact they may have on your life. Those of us who have a mental illness have a harder time adjusting to life changes: relationships, starting a new job or losing an existing one, changing locations, the loss of a loved one. It is ironic, but positive life changes can also have an adverse influence on mood. It's hard to find balance among all of the different cards that life deals us, but it's crucial to be able to distinguish circumstantial stress from signs and symptoms of relapse.

The title of this blog, Recovering from Mental Illness, argues that, yes, it is possible to recover from mental illness. But recovering from a mental illness is different from, say, recovering from a physical injury. I broke my ankle two years ago and spent time on crutches and in physiotherapy. The recovery period was slow, six months passed before I could walk with both feet, but my ankle slowly healed. It became well and functioned as it once had. I could rely on it to take me through the day. I could go running again. Recovering from mental illness is not the same. The process probably does not require physiotherapy and Tylenol as the drug of choice. The road to recovery from mental illness is much longer, not usually smooth, and perhaps hot to the touch. Metaphors aside: it isn't easy.

I hesitated to use the word war in the title. I considered using the word struggle. But war is defined by combat: You are at war with your mental illness. Sometimes, every day. Struggle means many things, but war feels appropriate. You can win a war, perhaps struggle along the way, but land on your feet nonetheless.

Yes, we have all been told that self-care is instrumental when recovering from a mental illness. We have probably been told that we need to eat a balanced diet, sleep eight hours a night, drink enough water, exercise on a regular basis, form positive relationships, frequent our psychiatrist, reach out to others in the community, take our medications, practice yoga...The list goes on. Extensively. It is worthy of a 1,000 page book. Conventional Self-Care I like to think of conventional self-care as prescribed self-care. It is as important as the prescriptions you take to find or maintain wellness. As stated above, the list of self-care  recommendations are numerous. Let's focus on a few.

Try these words on: Mental illness, mentally ill, relapse,  psychiatry, psychiatrist, psychotropic medication, anti-psychotics, mania, depression, social isolation, side-effects, sickness, disease. How do these words feel applied to you as a person with a mental illness? I can tell you how they make me feel:  Awful, stigmatized, labeled. They make you feel alien. They make you feel alone. Unique in your illness. You might feel like you are the the brisk notes your psychiatrist jots down as you talk to her. You might wonder if those words, scribbled with medical jargon, define you as a person

Mental illness is an isolating and lonely disease. This is not to say that everyone diagnosed with a mental illness feels alone in their struggle, but many of us do, most of us do at some point in our recovery. Because I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of twelve, I have often felt lonely and as if very few people could really understand me. And now, twelve years later, I still struggle with a feeling that I am alone in my illness, that despite a concerted effort on the behalf of those who love me, they cannot really understand the struggle. These thoughts, these feelings, are normal in connection to mental illness, because by nature, mental illness is a lonely and isolating disease.

Being a mental health patient requires patience. Eternal, frustrating patience. When you have a mental illness a few weeks feels like a few years. A decade. A mental health patient's degree of patience is the difference between suffering and relief. Living in patience peacefully is the key to mental health recovery.

I touched on the idea that labels are intrinsically different than stigma in Removing The Labels of Mental Illness. I believe that. Mental illness is, at its core, attached to stigma. Although mental health stigma is weaker than it once was, stigma is damaging nonetheless. But first, let's examine the connection between stigmatizing mental illness and labeling it.