Being Bipolar

From the latest edition of Paper magazine. 

Growing up, I aspired to be rich, successful and famous. I dreamt of becoming a human rights lawyer who would fight all wrongs against humanity and be lauded for it. I also wanted to be a famous novelist, rich enough to own her own island. Like all children of rich, ambitious parents, I equated financial success with happiness. As an adult, I realised how wrong I was. Currently, I’m not working myself into the ground and as a result, am always blissfully broke. Money comes in, money goes out, but slowly it’ll start to trickle in more. Instead of freaking out about not being able to make any savings at the moment, I remind myself daily, how grateful I am that I’m happy. And that’s what matter, that’s what counts.

At the age of 24, I started to take my mental health issues very seriously. I was always a troubled person so when my doctor confirmed for me that years of depression were a misdiagnosis and that I was really bipolar, it all started to make sense. Weird, too intelligent for my own good with an imagination that had a life of its own, I was always living on two planets at once: this world, where I physically belonged but didn’t love, and my own little planet in my head. I hated this vicious, cruel world and aspired to change it. I didn’t belong but I desperately wanted to. I hated this world so much, that the thought of it ending never upset me. The thought of dying and leaving seemed appealing at times. I’ve kept some of the suicide notes I’ve written over the years to remind myself that even when I’ve hit rock bottom, I’ve managed to pull myself up again. They disturb me but they also comfort me and remind me that I’m a survivor and that is something to be proud of.

But I wouldn’t be here, writing this, and sharing my story had it not been for some major life changes and many years of painful therapy. Had I not changed my life, had I not made the effort to overhaul a major part of who I am and taken all the medications, I am convinced I would have been dead. I do not expect you to understand or even comprehend what it is that I go through, but I’m hoping some insight into my condition will help you develop a sense of empathy towards those of us with invisible disabilities.

At the same time as I was being diagnosed and tested for bipolar disorder, I was working at a bank and was downright miserable. I was only working there to please my family who I had a strained relationship with. I desperately wanted my parents to be as proud of me as they were of their “normal” children so even though I was miserable, crying myself to sleep every night and waking up with a sense of dread, I continued. I hated my job and had extreme ethical issues with much of what I was being asked to do and put up with. Other than the work politics, which I later realised was nothing compared to the education industry, being placed in service and treated like an object was dehumanising and made me incredibly angry. Day after day customers got away with abusing me when they were in a bad mood. Aunties got away with grilling me about my love life and marriage plans. Men stood at my desk and stared at me like a sex object. No matter what I wore, no matter how conservative my clothes, I was ogled, glared at, asked out and felt more like a sex worker than a banker. There was nothing I could do. Whenever I attempted to complain, or told my misogynist boss that I wasn’t happy, he told me to suck it up because the customer is always right. I didn’t like him and as a result, when I did something good and was praised for it, it didn’t feel good. It just felt empty.

In order to cope, I started self medicating with alcohol and partied hard to relieve all the stress that had accumulated over the week. Needless to say I did incredibly stupid things that I later regretted and actually had no control over my impulsive need to drink when in the company of drinkers. I only gave up when given a choice: alcohol or mental health. The medications I was taking wouldn’t work if I continued to drink so reluctantly, grudgingly, I stopped. Luckily, they helped control my impulse so I was easily able to say no. I instantly started to feel better. My unquiet mind, with its constantly racing, distressing thoughts, was at peace. I was able to sleep. The ticks in my head didn’t keep me up and the silence allowed me to focus. It was probably the best decision I ever made even though it lost me many friends.

When I stopped drinking and decided I would sort my issues out, I realised what a toxic circle of friends and relatives I had around me. Instead of being supportive, many judged me for not drinking and partying excessively like they would. Indeed they only wanted validation and my refusal to give it to them strained our relationships. Many would get drunk and abuse me, killing off the tiny bit of self-esteem I had built up. They never apologised and eventually, instead of forgiving them for it over and over again, I simply cut them out and decided I didn’t need such people in my life. If people who claim they are friends choose not to support you and deliberately aggravate you, there is either something wrong with them, or they simply are not worth investing in emotionally.

At the same time, I made a major career change. I started teaching, something I never thought I’d do. I had a degree in women’s studies and didn’t think teaching would be a career choice that made me happy. Yet it did. Even though I never loved the environment or politics, I loved teaching. It was immensely rewarding and made me feel good. It also allowed me to be creative and forced me to remain open minded. Through teaching, I could change the world like I had always wanted to. It also inspired me to start blogging and writing on a regular basis.

Because of teaching, blogging and activism, I also met many wonderful people who I am now proud to call friends. The elite bubble I had earlier associated with slipped away into oblivion and there’s no going back. There’s no going back to a culture that I personally find toxic. Most of the elite I know have a sense of entitlement that makes them supremely unsympathetic to the horrific world around them. I have heard them make statements so callous that they have left me wounded. They judge me based on how much money I’m making and most have told me, to my face, that teaching is noble but not enough. They cannot comprehend that the pursuit for money is not something everyone aspires to and they judge those who don’t. They don’t understand any perspectives other than their own, and as a result, I find that culture toxic and intolerant.

Another form of support in my life other than my doctors and family are many other bipolar people around me. I’ve been active on bipolar forums and support groups for many years now and they have served as an incredible form of strength. Therapy, along with medication, is crucial for recovery but doctors can’t always be available, nor is it feasible to rely on just one doctor alone. Support groups are a form of group therapy and we provide each other with a lot of motivation. We keep each other going through the hard days and we all provide support, without judgement, because we can truly understand unlike those who have never experienced severe mood shifts.

I teach critical thinking and believe in constant self-reflection which most people in this country resist. We don’t admit our wrongs. Instead we point fingers and blame others. I honestly feel we suffer from a collective psychosis and if you have mental health issues, this attitude is dangerous. It is dangerous because the process of recovery and learning to cope in this world necessarily requires self reflection and being forced to confront your mistakes. Unless you can do that, you cannot get better. It’s easy to convince ourselves that we aren’t the problem. I know. I’ve been there. But that state of mind, when one is nothing but just a victim, is counterproductive and doesn’t lead to any healing. Instead it only leads to pain, bitterness and anger.

I turn a blind eye to those who judge me for who I am. Years of teaching, writing and part time activism have made me a thick skinned and strong woman who knows her strengths. I’ve also made the effort to study my illness, to understand it, to do what I need to in order to stay functional and happy such as avoiding all triggers. I decline late nights, no matter what, because unlike others, I need a full eight hours of sleep. Those who love me truly understand and do not mind my absence. Without restful sleep, my day is ruined and there’s a danger I will have an episode.

These days I only work part time. I no longer associate with any schools and quite easily gave up a very prestigious teaching position because it was making me miserable. I now work when I can and when I can’t; I do not have to medicate myself into a stupor just to function. I’ve learnt to value and crave stability over financial gain or societal approval. It honestly doesn’t mean much without happiness. Sadly, I still see so many bipolar people stuck in this vicious trap, miserable and in immense pain. As a success story, I’m hoping this inspires them to become pro active and take their life into their own hands. If I can do it, anyone can.

Download PDF: Being bipolar

Paper’s latest issue is available now & also available on ipad.

Lock up the lazy bloggers?

A few months ago, our social conscience, the greatest most ethical journalists in the world, Cafe Pyala, blatantly lied about me and even after being informed they were incorrect, they didn’t correct their error. I didn’t want it removed at all because I want the world to see just how easily people lie about bipolar people (by assuming the worst in us) simply because we are bipolar. I want this to remain up there forever so that I can convince any manic bipolar person not to come out to the public. Many think writing an article like I did will be a wonderful idea. It’s not. Truth be told, I regret coming out because society isn’t ready. And even those who claim they are sensitive to my disability really aren’t and end up assuming all sorts of things about me based on stereotypes. For example, if I rant or make an angry statement, people end up assuming I’m manic or having some severe rage. I can no longer just be annoyed or amused. Everyone will assume an extreme.

But back to Pyala who can’t even spell my name correctly (it’s Shaikh with an A). Seems rather lazy not to check how I spell it but anyway… Pyala claims I invaded a journalist’s privacy when I did no such thing. The journalist in question had all these details up on line. But in order to mock a bipolar woman, I guess it’s ok to define reading something that’s publicly available to all as “invasion of privacy”. Secondly, no summer plans could possibly get ruined because the profile is very old. Unless Pyala thinks I have a time machine, I cannot possibly ruin someone’s plans that have already occurred.

But that’s not my point. My main point here is that any of us can selectively use tweets to defame anyone. And here are some of Pyala’s tweets to analyze:

Cretin, a word so loaded, so abusive is easily used by Pyala. It mocks the weak, the infirm.

Apparently the very intellectual team is unaware that words like lunatic aren’t ok to use. They are actually unaware that words like lunatic are extremely demeaning to those of us with mental health issues. Yeah, I buy that.

Pyala’s tweets aren’t free of misogyny either.

Ah yes, if a woman’s a presenter, then her appearance is fair game. And if her haircut is bad, it’s because her husband cut it at home because men can’t cut hair and women MUST look good.

I have many more but I’m saving them for a workshop. Moving on to ad hominems:

Maybe because they’re in good company?

And here’s Mr XYZ making a personal attack on another author on facebook. Don’t worry, I’ve protected his identity. I know who the team members are and unlike most Pakistanis, the last thing I want is to get back at them by telling the world who they are (most people already know anyway). Logical deconstruction and the fallacies they constantly provide me are the best revenge.

The Pyala team, just like the rest of us, loves to preach but not act. I’m getting tired of being someone who is always ready to point out flaws but never reflect. I’m tired of Pakistanis being so unhappy in life that the only satisfaction we get is by being nasty and then basking in our own intellectual glory. I want no part of it. And I do, indeed, deeply fear the massive backlash I will face because of this.

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Being bipolar in Pakistan

First published in Dawn blog.

I suffer from a disability called bipolar disorder, something that 2.4 per cent of the global population suffers from. For most of us, it is a genetic disease, but there are others who don’t have a family history of it. It manifests itself by making an individual feel extreme highs and lows in cycles. It is also varied in intensity and has two classifications: bipolar I and bipolar II.

Being bipolar in Pakistan is not easy. Mental health disorders in this country are taboos that lead to discrimination which we face increasingly by the day. And because our disability cannot be seen, it is often dismissed as a lie or an excuse not to work. The very same people who imply that it’s possible for us to “snap out of it” would never dream of telling someone in a wheelchair to stop whining and walk.

Day by day, we hide our pain, the obsessive thoughts in our head and make excuses that are lies just so that we are not judged. Some of us don’t disclose this to our employers until we’ve been hired because we know that if we do, we may not be hired at all. More often than not, we never disclose. We pretend to be what we are not and over the years, it takes a huge toll on our well-being.

Can you imagine being in our shoes? Can you imagine a day when you’re so depressed that you’re unable to move, let alone get out of bed to brush your teeth or eat? Can you imagine being able to convince yourself that killing yourself would be the best thing you could do for your own family so that they don’t have to put up with your wretched existence? Can you imagine being so elated that you actually believe jumping off a roof will not harm you at all? Can you imagine being so manic that your totally irrational and incomprehensible thoughts actually make sense to you – Can you possibly imagine it at all unless you’ve been through it? We live in hell, which is why we mostly don’t fear death, perhaps this is why we have the highest suicide rate.

While I cannot speak on behalf of all females who have bipolar disorder, I do believe that we face similar discrimination and challenges. Bipolar patients necessarily need support from their family and friends, but in our culture, most families are not willing to accept that we have a problem. There is a lot of denial because of the huge stigma associated with mental health disorders. Many times, it is important for families to convince a bipolar person to seek help for the one who is suffering is not willing to acknowledge that he/she has a problem.

Because we live in a very superstitious culture where religion is given greater value than medical interventions, too many bipolar people are only diagnosed much later than they should be. People who are mentally unwell are usually taken to shrines. Since there is no visible “illness”, it is also considered a “curse” due to black magic. If someone is suffering from a mental health illness, it is assumed that they are possessed by a jinn.

Psychiatrist Dr Nusrat Rana, who runs the Punjab Institute of Mental Health, has had patients whose arms have been cut off by pirs who were trying to exorcise jinns out of them. She treated a woman whose face was scared by a faith healer with hot tongs when she was hysterical. By going through so much trauma, both physical and emotional, most develop Post Traumatic Stress Disorder which further exacerbates their ordeal.

Others marry off their daughters thinking that marriage will “cure” her, only to see that her bipolar disorder has been exacerbated by childbirth and postpartum depression or mania. If her condition results in a divorce, which is mostly the case, she is further shunned and mistreated. This “shaadi kaara doh” advice is also given by doctors, linking it to conversion disorder, which according to Dr Nusrat Rana, is a new version of hysteria, the archaic “wandering womb” syndrome.

As a teenager, I used to hallucinate and see black giants. Even though my mother belongs to a family that manufactures and sells pharmaceuticals, she was convinced I was seeing jinns. She really thought prayer and rituals would solve my problem but they never did. I know I was hallucinating because all the giants went away once I started taking medications that stabilised my brain chemistry. I no longer see things that are not there, nor do I hear voices like I used to. It’s not my mother’s fault that she believed religion could solve my problem and I do not judge her for it. She is, after all, a product of the society she comes from and has been incredibly supportive over the past few years.

This misconceptions regarding bipolar disorder and horrific stereotypes perpetuated by the media, as well as, people in general make having an unseen disability worse than it should have to be. Nor should it necessarily be seen as a “curse” for it can be a gift. Some of the most creative geniuses had bipolar disorder such as Virginia Woolf.

Stephen Fry openly talks about it and has even made a documentary about what it is like to be bipolar. Studies show connections between bipolar disorder and creativity and many lists of famous bipolar artists, writers etc have been compiled which shows just how much those of us with this “disease” have contributed to the world.

Had it not been for bipolar people, the world would have been a duller place and I keep thinking, perhaps just to console myself, that it surely must have evolved for a good reason.