Last week, my little girl celebrated her fourth birthday. Her delicate, fine blond hair had yet to see the hands of a professional stylist, and with a new “Sweet and Sassy” beauty salon opening nearby, she chose an experience over a traditional gift from her parents. On her special day, I took her for a princess haircut and updo, complete with sparkly hairspray and a glitter heart tattoo to complete her royal makeover. She savored every moment.
She was just as delighted with her custom “Pink and Purple Elsa Heart party,” which had its own unique twist compared to all the other birthday parties we attended this year. Grandma came through with a stunning homemade heart-shaped cake, adorned with pastel purple and pink icing and topped with Elsa and Anna candles. One day, I will explain to her why I feel a lump in my throat when we play Demi Lovato’s rendition of “Let It Go” on the iPad. It resonates with me on a profound level.
Nine years ago, I found myself spending Christmas in a mental health facility. At 26, I was blindsided by a severe mental illness, leaving my family grappling with an intense sense of helplessness and fear for my future. Questions loomed over us: What would become of my marriage? Would I be able to return to my career? Would I ever regain a semblance of normalcy?
We hid behind a facade, speaking in hushed tones even when alone at home, fearful that the outside world would discover the truth about my bipolar disorder. The shame seeped into my very being, forcing me to muffle my cries into my pillow at night. I often wondered, “Why me?” Life felt like an insurmountable burden, and I was at a loss for how to reclaim my shattered existence. The thought of giving up seemed like a more viable option than enduring the pain.
I lived by the mantra of “conceal, don’t feel” around friends and extended family. The fear of being labeled or judged was paralyzing. Yet, despite my attempts to censor my conversations, an inner voice urged me to share my trauma. I sensed that releasing my pent-up emotional pain could be healing. It’s challenging to feel whole while clinging to secrets. Eventually, I chose to stop hiding; I opened up about my experiences on my blog, and that decision transformed my life.
Not every holiday season is filled with joy and sparkle; some are spent in mental health facilities. However, with time and the right treatment, recovery is possible. I emerged from that hospital a changed person, and Christmas would never hold the same meaning for me.
Throughout these past nine years living with bipolar disorder, I’ve learned that perfection is a myth. We all face our struggles and harbor our hidden secrets. Since I began sharing my journey nearly two years ago, my relationships have deepened in ways I never thought possible. I now enjoy richer, more meaningful connections with those I hold dear and have forged new friendships by discussing the difficult experiences I’ve faced.
When we reveal our scars and imperfections, we liberate ourselves. The door to our wounded hearts can only be unlocked from within. Though it may be challenging to grasp the key and turn it, the rewards are worth the effort.
This month, I hope that if you find yourself in darkness amidst the holiday lights, remember it’s okay to seek help. Don’t let your secrets imprison you. Support is available, and when we allow ourselves to be vulnerable, we create space for love and healing to enter.
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In summary, the journey through mental illness can reshape your perception of life and relationships. Through sharing our struggles, we foster connections and find healing.