Nancy Cahill

My childhood was idyllic. I was a little girl in the tranquil 50's (if you were white, that is). I climbed trees, played jacks, went sledding down icy hills, and was in 5th grade gym class when JFK was shot. In 1965, my parents took me to Afghanistan due to my dad's work and changed my paradigm forever. Way way before 911 I witnessed the unspeakable Afghan poverty and oppression of women. My first depression hit when I was 16. My 20's were characterized by exhilarating highs and crushing lows. Today, we all know that the next sentence should be: I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. But in the 70's, 80's, and 90's, physicians didn't know the right questions to ask. They saw patients only when they were depressed, not when they were manic, and so like thousands, I was diagnosed incorrectly as unipolar. In 1986, I got married and had two adorable children. I had multiple episodes of mania and depression which translated into a volatile marriage and less than stable parenting. The last part of that sentence is the most difficult confession of my life. I adore my children. It pains and angers me that I never received appropriate medical care until my children were grown and I was in my early 50's. I write about my life experiences with bipolar because ignorance is still rampant, and with ignorance comes stigmatization. I write so others who suffer know they have a fellow fighter against the ravages of this disease. One of the worst parts of bipolar is that I cannot talk about it to anyone. Bipolar is a code word for crazy, and people panic and freak out when they hear it. In this way, having bipolar disorder is much like being a gay man or woman who is afraid to come out. We have two lives: the one we show you the public and the other one, our true reality. Because so many think we are morally weak or just sickos, we stay "in the closet," hiding our true selves since "I was born this way" is not acceptable. When I think of my 40 years with this disease, I am reminded of the women in Afghanistan I would drive past in my father's car. Their true selves were forever forced to stay hidden beneath their burqas. I never thought I would have anything in common with those women. I was born luckier, richer, safer! How wrong I was. Yet I am okay with how things turned out. Learning empathy and compassion for the unluckiest among us is the purpose of life--I believe--and why we continue to choose life over the alternative.