Let’s scrap stigma of mental illness

Even though one in five Americans is estimated to suffer from mental health illness, talk about mental health in the rural West remains muted. I’d like to talk about it this Thanksgiving because I’m grateful I got the help I needed after a long-fought problem: I’m bipolar and I’m being treated for it. I didn’t start out bipolar. I was 24 when my behavior took a dive. At first, I chalked it up to my job in New York, where I was buying and selling stocks all day. I became manic and anxious, prone to periods of depression laced with sleepless anxiety. During a period of ramped-up mental anguish, I jumped out of a moving car. It was going fast, over 30 miles per hour. I was with friends when someone made a joke at my expense, and rather than fire back a witty response. I thought, “I’m going to explode.” I opened the door and jumped. Ten seconds later, I was hobbling down a dark suburban street. Sure, I was bloody, gravel lodged in my hands, but I was relieved to be out of that car. Running from problems became my life’s work. It was that or suddenly erupting in anger, seeming without notice. But for years I dodged seeing a psychiatrist, consulting a therapist instead. I’d grown up in a rural Western community and seeking psychiatric help seemed impossible. When I finally sought out a psychiatrist 15 years later, he asked tough questions. What were the most erratic things I’d done? Jumping out of a moving car ranked first on the list. Had I ever been hospitalized for my behavior? No, nothing that severe. He took notes, then gave me his diagnosis: I was bipolar. I firmly resisted that conclusion. Skeptically, he offered antidepressant medication. “Typically, a bipolar person will have a poor reaction,” he said. I had seven bad reactions to seven antidepressants. I finally gave up, “I’m not saying I’m bipolar,” I said, “but if I were, what medication would you prescribe?” “I’d prescribe an antipsychotic,” he said. At that point the continuing anguish of my daily life outweighed my fear of being diagnosed as mentally ill. “I’m ready,” I said. Sure enough, the medication was effective, and life changed. I slept soundly and could readily work. I experienced calm. I married, had a child and eased into what passes for normal life. But I never talked to people about being bipolar, about the medication that made life worth living. I bought life insurance and went through a medical exam. Afterward, the agent said I could get a much better rate without an antipsychotic in my daily regimen. I paid the higher rate for what I called my “bipolar tax.” In 2022, my family and I moved from New York to the town of Durango, Colorado. I called psychiatrists in the area and explained I was looking to start treatment locally. One doctor quickly texted me back and asked me to text my medications. “Whoa!” he texted, “I don’t treat bipolar patients.” The next psychiatrist rejected me also. I tried to wean off medication, but the old hamster wheel of anxious thoughts spun faster and faster. In western Colorado, it took finding a telehealth doctor who would prescribe the medication that allowed me to function. I also got to know my neighbor John Truitt, who is, among other things, on the autism spectrum and happy to chat about it. Sensing a kindred spirit, I began, “This is a big secret.” His reaction to my confession was surprising: “Big deal you’re bipolar,” he said. “You’re what’s called 2E for twice exceptional.” That meant I was “neurodiverse” and gifted, he said. My gift had once been turning the chaos of financial markets into profitable trades, something I can’t do now while medicated, but I’m fine with that. Since that day, I’ve told more people about my diagnosis and subsequent learning curve. This spring, I gave a commencement speech at the private Heron School for Twice-Exceptional Students in Moab, Utah, sharing with parents, teachers and students my bumpy ride with mental illness. Looking at the audience, I saw understanding and acceptance. Because so many of us live with it, mental illness needs to be acknowledged, treated and talked about. I could have saved so much time, energy and pain by seeking the right kind of help earlier. How much healthier we would be if we treated mental illness the way we treat any other illness — with openness and compassion. Dave Marston is the publisher of “Writers on the Range” (writersontherange.org), an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about Western issues. He lives in Durango, Colorado.

Related Stories