From time to time, I struggle with writer’s block. I think to myself that I have nothing to say and that I have nothing to say in which people want to hear. I often view it as normal and part of the process of a writer/blogger. In the advent of a rare snow day resulting in the closure of my office, I anticipated spending the day writing and drinking tea. The reality is I spend the day binge-watching Empire and asking my husband what I should write about. He suggested politics. I laughed.
Until I didn’t. This week, a quote making the rounds in the news has sat with me as I rolled its words and meaning around my head.
“She was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted.” This was a statement Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell said in defense of his cutting off Senator Elizabeth Warren from remarks during a confirmation hearing for the position of Attorney General. Women all over have adopted this as a new rally cry in defiance of a new administration in Washington, which has been less than friendly to women’s rights. I digress however, as this is a blog about life with mental illness.
“She was warned.”
I was warned, sort of. I see this as more of the stinging rebuke once passed onto me by a therapist who chose to give up on me as a patient than take the time to assess if my diagnosis of postpartum depression needed to be revisited. I was deemed by the provider to still have the diagnosis, but that I was unruly, untethered, wild, and unable to be properly treated. And so, with the unruliness statement and the subsequent discharge from the practice I had my warning. I had the warning that I was too sick to manage, too sick to be treated and too sick for other providers to consider.
“She was given an explanation.”
In time, I was given an explanation. It took a second suicide attempt and hospitalization to get one. It was explained to my husband and I that I was bipolar. The diagnosis of postpartum depression, while once fitting, no longer applied. It was an explanation that I would need to hear over and over and over before I could really hear it. I would be hospitalized two more times before I would begin to understand what this explanation, what being diagnosed with bipolar disorder really means. This explanation still needs to be repeated to me from time to time as a refresher to best grasp the implications for my family and myself. I have an explanation no matter how many times I need to hear the words that I live with bipolar disorder.
“Nevertheless, she persisted.”
And how. This diagnosis, this challenge, has not kept me down. I persist due to my family. I persist due to the psychiatrist who thought “what the hell, I’ll take her on.” I persist due to my own bullish tenacity to prove others wrong. I persist to prove my old therapist wrong. I persist to prove any and all naysayers wrong. I can and did achieve a fragile state of remission. I persist to demonstrate to the attending psychiatrist during my last hospitalization that she was right. She told me I needed to get better and use my voice, my knowledge, my medical training for good rather than self-pity.
Nevertheless, I Persist.
And so can you.