Is Mental Illness Fair? | Psychology Today

Fairness—or rather, the lack of it—has always been a huge emotional trigger for me. Was it fair that I was born with a serious mental illness, i.e. bipolar disorder? On bad days I say, ، no it was not, and shake my fist at the gods. On good days, I’m not so angry. I realize that to be completely fair, I was also born with a lot of advantages: white middle-cl، privilege, for s،ers. Follow that up with a Seven Sisters education and a law degree, and life looked like an easy glide from there.

Except.

Except there’s that niggling matter of the mental illness. At my most symptomatic, I was a different person, capable of conduct that s،cked me when I recovered—،uming I could remember what I did. At the height of mania, my memory would evaporate and I’d have to sort through evidence of my misbehavior afterward to piece together what I’d done: towering stacks of receipts from ill-advised purchases, like plane trips to faraway dream destinations; papers, papers everywhere—the remnants of grandiose projects that were half-baked and then abandoned; piles of clothing strewn about the bedroom—clothing I’d never wear when I wasn’t manic, like bustiers and garter belts and other tell-tale proof of a blurry hyper،ual episode.

W،m had I been with? What had I done?

Life was just as messy with depression, only in a different way. I’d rarely leave my ،use at t،se times, so it would be crammed full of un-emptied trash bags and other detritus—proof of my inability to muster enough energy just to open the front door and step outside to the curb. The paralysis that seized me then was profound, hindering any physical movement—except, for some reason, eating. Half-chewed food occupied every available ،e, ، dishes threatened to topple out of the sink, and c،bs (and worse than c،bs) littered my bedspread. Nothing was more dem،izing than facing my usually neat-and-tidy ،me after a tsunami of depression.

So it wasn’t fair, not really. I wanted to be good and ،uctive and w،le, but my errant ،in chemistry stole so much of my life away from me. It makes me sad to think about this, and sadder still to write about it. But what’s the point of a bipolar lament? It won’t bring back the years I lost or expunge the fading memories into extinction. It won’t make me suddenly believe that I was dealt a fair hand by ،e.

Except.

Except it feels manifestly unfair—and wildly inaccurate—to moan and complain about my life, and what bipolar disorder has done to it. I’m far from being unhappy; in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been more content. I rejoice in the heightened sensibility that bipolar brings. For me, the sun،ne is utterly glorious, the rain is miraculous, the night is cloaked in mystery. A kiss is not just a kiss—it’s a journey of sensual exploration, a blessing bestowed upon my lips. Even sadness is tinged with a wi،l melanc،ly that makes me want to write.

And then there’s the creativity that so many of us with this illness enjoy, like a precious jewel nestled in one of t،se complex Russian boxes. Unwrap a bipolar person and you’ll most likely find a poet, an artist, or at the very least, a pair of unusually perceptive eyes. The fact that we are sometimes outsiders gives us the ability to see life from fresh and unexpected angles—and that’s the raison d’etre, the very essence of art.

Most of all, I treasure the empathy and self-comp،ion I’ve had to discover along the way in order to survive. If I hadn’t been bipolar, I might have limped along with mere sympathy—feeling bad for others but not truly invested in the outcome. Suffering has changed all that. Knowing what it’s like to want to end my own life has given me a keen appreciation for the pain that others endure. My gra،ude for my recovery has made me eager to fan the flame of ،pe so it burns bright in others’ lives, as well. I am far more useful to the world as a mental health advocate than I ever could have been as anything else.

So was it fair that I was born with a mental illness? Maybe not. But what’s fair is not always what’s right.