I sometimes think I'm making my bipolar disorder up. On a lovely day in May when the jacaranda trees along my street are in bloom and so am I, it's hard to believe I was ever the grief-stricken, sodden-eyed wretch I've written about so frequently. Depression is like the rabbit that the magician suddenly whips out of his hat: where was it hiding before? It just appears, out of nowhere, and you're all amazed.
Given that I've published two books about my mental illness and talked about it to countless people all over the world, it may seem strange that I would ever doubt its existence. It's as much a part of my identity now as my freckles and red hair. I never question the fact that I'm a natural redhead. I never wake up in the morning and expect to be blonde. Why then do I wonder if I'm bipolar? Why do I tell myself, today is a brand new day and I'm just as normal as anyone else?
Lately I've been plagued by other people's doubts. In a perfect world, those who are closest to you would implicitly believe what you tell them. If you say, "I have an illness," you'd expect them to understand and empathize. Certainly if you were to say, "I have cancer," you'd expect an immediate heartfelt response: what can I do for you? How can I help? It's extremely unlikely that anyone would react to that statement by questioning your veracity.
Why then when you say, "I have a mental illness," is the reaction not the same? Why do people try to talk you out of it, when you know damn well that this is your truth? To my astonishment, the members of my own family—who should know me better than anyone else—refuse to believe that I'm ill. To the contrary, they think I'm a fraud, trying to take the easy way out by playing on people's sympathy.
So I suppose it isn't all that surprising that I doubt my own reality from time to time. It doesn't help that bipolar disorder is such a shape-shifting trickster by nature, forever changing how it looks and feels. It's extremely hard to pin down. When I was writing my books, I found that mania was far easier to describe, probably because it leaves such a visible swath of damage in its wake. But depression . . . Writing about depression is like trying to paint an invisible still life while blindfolded. In the dark.
It's impossible to truly remember depression unless and until you're in it. Maybe that's God's calculated blessing, along the lines of dulling the memory of childbirth so that women will still continue to breed. It's a clever trick to keep the planet alive. Because believe me, if I remembered how it felt to be depressed when I was fully recovered, I'd do anything in my power to escape that suffering. Whatever it took, even suicide—just so I'd never have to go there again.
There are three words I always say to my therapist when depression hits: "It's so real." I say it with a shake of my head and wonder in my voice, because I can't believe how palpable the pain really is. It isn't just in my head; it's in my bones. My whole body aches with despair.
The fact that it's so physical is actually something of a relief. I know that contrary to what my family may think, I'm not just a wimp who can't cope with the stresses of everyday life. I'm not a malingerer who doesn't want to work. I feel sicker than if I had the flu or even pneumonia—it's agony simply to blink or breathe. Something is very, very wrong, and it's not all in my imagination. It's not because I googled "depression" one too many times. And I'm not pretending. Who would ever choose to play this role? It's hardly heroic.
The eyes I see in the mirror are all the proof I'll ever need that I'm ill: the light has completely disappeared from them. They're ghost eyes, haunted by pain.
Even on a lovely day in May, the rabbit takes me unawares. I sit down and email my therapist. I know it won't come as a surprise to him, but it's still and always a shock to me. "It's so real," I say.