The Dilemma of Disclosing Bipolar Illness

As I sat at the conference table, trying to collect my thoughts, I reflected on what to say. The words came out harshly. “I am bipolar.”

Here I was telling my colleagues, fellow mental health professionals, my secret. Once more, I was confirming the stigma of mental illness. In this instance, I was up against my own stigma: prejudice, fear of my illness, and anxiety over the judgment of others. What would they think of me? Would they lose respect? Would my bringing this out in the open cause others to look at me differently, as someone irreparably flawed? Would I lose friendships as a result? In that moment, my previous life of manic episodes flashed before my eyes. How could I expect others to understand what it is like to be manic?

After my disclosure, the room was quiet. Everyone’s eyes were either on me or glancing down. I wondered if they expected me to say more. The air felt heavy. Finally, someone broke the silence by saying, “I never knew.” Perplexed by my statement, slowly the atmosphere shifted from heaviness to quandary.

“Why did you tell us now?”

“I wanted you to know me,” I said.

Finally, one or two of them congratulated me on my honesty. I could tell that some of the others felt awkward and said nothing, but I could see they were looking at me with respect. In addition, an explanation of my difficulties in the last several months was explained: my silence, my lack of conversation, and my skittish interaction. I felt relieved, my opinion of myself, elevated.

It was at that staff meeting that I made the decision to write about my illness. I had come out in the open and for the first time and wanted to know more. It felt good. I was cleansed. The dirt and grit of my depression fell away, leaving me with hope.

I am still uncertain why I decided at that point in time, 1996 (23 years after my first manic episode), to go public with my mental illness; but I had clearly come to a crossroads in my life.