I've been having some issues and a Guest Posting!

I haven't been around much recently; I've been having some work issues and some anxiety issues that have made my work issues worse.

But back before I deleted my blog, I approached several people about writing a guest post on their thoughts of identity. During the presidential campaign, I spent a lot of time thinking about racial identity, Obama's, my son's and mine, and I thought that I'd like to hear from other people about what identity means to them -- how do they identify themselves, and what follows in the next post are Chris Braak's musings. Chris is part of the team at Threat Quality Press, a great blog. So check him and Jeff Holland out, and enjoy his post.

I'm back, and I'm lonely

My fear of being found out at work has passed. I don't want them to know I have bipolar disorder for many reasons, but the main reason I don't want them to know is that I'm afraid they will fire me if they find out.

I'm sort of kind of covered under the ADA, but not really -- mental illness doesn't get the type of protection other disabilities do. I'm not sure how I feel about that, maybe because I'm not so sure how I feel about being disabled. I mean, am I truly disabled? I'm not willing to go there today, so maybe I'll write about it later.

Today I want to write about emotions. One of the problems I have is that I don't know when my emotions are true. That's not to say that they aren't real -- they are always real as I experience them, but one of the problems with mood disorders is you wonder if you are truly feeling joy or are you manic. Are you just plain old sad or are you depressed?

There are psychological "tests" I guess you could call them, checklists where professionals determine if your mood has gone to one of the poles, but in my day-to-day life, I often wonder if the loneliness I feel is just plain old loneliness or something more.

Today I am lonely. I feel utterly alone. I know I'm not alone: I have a son who loves me dearly. I have a handful of friends. My parents love me. But today I yearn for something more. I yearn for a loving partner who will accept me in all my bipolar glory. Someone I can love in return and comfort and express the scary things that live in the deepest parts of my mind.

My mind scares me. It has betrayed me. In some ways I might be a smart person, capable and kind, but in other ways I'm a victim of paralyzing anxiety and fear. And I know, I know that there is nothing to fear; I know that the anxiety is unwarranted. I understand that I'm suffering from PTSD and other issues due to organic chemical processes and traumatic experiences, but knowing doesn't stop the fear.

I've recently tried meditating. It helps, but I have to force myself to relax and allow myself to be led through meditation. Medication helps, but it also makes me loopy, and part of me hates that I rely so much on the meds.

Yes, mental illness is, to use an overused comparison, like diabetes. You have it, and it's treatable, and it's value neutral and you learn to live with it. But mental illness is not like diabetes in that the stigma is not the same. I suppose there is a stigma attached to Type II diabetes, the kind you might get if you're overweight, and the kind that might resolve if you get in better shape. We don't have much love or compassion for overweight people in this society. And, well, being crazy isn't a great thing either.

Yesterday, in a room of people, a young woman admitted to me that she's on Lexapro. Part of me wanted to comfort her and say, "Honey, I've been on Lexapro and Effexor and Wellbutrin and soon I'll be on Prozac when I can afford to have my prescription filled." But I didn't. I didn't want to out myself.

I'm sure that I don't hide the lunacy as well as I think I do, but it was missed for so long, and I did relatively well in school and at my job that I think I managed to hoodwink many. And all along I knew that there was something wrong with me -- that I am different in some fundamental way.

So, today I am sad about all of this, and I don't have anyone to tell. My mother thinks that God and prayer are the answers to my loneliness, and my father just doesn't get it. He's old and tired and cranky, and I'm afraid that if I tell him how lonely I am, he'll get annoyed or, worse, reject me. So I'm telling you.