I will not let my mental illness define me

the thing about mental illness is… it never truly goes away.

I’ve written a lot about mental illness. About eating disorders. About healthcare and its lack of sympathy for the majority affected.

I’ve let my words heal me and heal others. Let them bring me out of dark places and into brighter ones. Allowed them to bring me hope of a brighter tomorrow when all I could do today was just keep holding on.

Sometimes, I blame my parents.

All those times when I was a child, when they would scold me for crying for no reason, when I was moody and they just passed it off as a phase, when I didn’t feel like eating anything and could barely get out of bed and they said it was just typical teenage laziness.

I wonder if they had brought me to a psychologist earlier, then maybe I would find healthier coping mechanisms. Or actually have coping mechanisms in place.

But mental illness does not exist for Asian Americans, so they refused to see what was in front of their eyes.

Sometimes, I thank my parents.

Thanks to them, I’ve learned to be a very functional person. Learned to hide anything that’s below the surface with a bright smile and enthusiastic demeanor.

Most of the time, I am very ok. Very functional. Thriving, almost.

But sometimes, the words of my psychiatrist haunt me:

“If you’ve had depression before, you are three times more likely to have it again.”

He had encouraged me to take medication for depression, diagnosed me with bipolar disorder, and all in all, confirmed that I was in some deep shit.

That hangs over my head.

Sometimes, as I cry for no reason, I wonder if I’ll be able to pick myself up this time around. I’ve always managed to, but what if I can’t this time?

And when the sleeplessness hits, the impulsive, self-destructive behavior, the feeling everything and nothing at all, it’s like a switch has flipped.

The thing is, I don’t know how to flip it back.

I am OK. I know I’ll be OK. I’ll always manage to be OK. I am strong, after all.

But how long will it take to be OK again? Is there any hope of normalcy? Can the switch ever be stuck in one position?

These are questions I ask myself, over and over again.

But I refuse to let my mental illness define me.

I refuse to let it be what I am judged on.

I refuse to make excuses because of it.

I refuse to let it hinder my life.

It does not define me.