Day of Life 2022

Originally posted November 20, 2022.

Hello friends,

As many of you know, on November 20 each year I celebrate what I’ve been calling my Day of Life–the anniversary of surviving my first suicide attempt on this date in 2007, as well as a second attempt on February 2, 2021–by putting together a long post about mental illness, coupled with a mildly awkward selfie because that’s how social media posts get boosted. The goals of these posts are to educate, generate empathy, and spur action in those who do not directly deal with mental illness, while encouraging those who do face a mental illness in the comfort that they are not alone, that they are strong, and that there is help out there for them. These posts have been overwhelmingly successful in accomplishing these goals over the years. Your support means so much to me. Thank you. Here’s another one.

I want to start by confessing that I am tired. I am tired of living with and daily battling bipolar II and anxiety disorders. I am not presently in crisis; as always, I take my treatment and care of my mental illnesses incredibly seriously. As well I should–according to the National Institute of Health, up to 60% of people who are diagnosed with bipolar attempt suicide in their lifetime, and 20% of people who have bipolar disorder will have a death by suicide. This is not a call for help. I am hoping I can make a compelling case for a call to action instead.

I am tired of writing about mental illness. I am tired of living with it.

To be clear, no one is making me do this. I am an advocate. I WANT to talk about this. I am passionate about this. Writing this is a big responsibility and I know, because people have told me directly, that these annual posts on social media have saved lives. That…I can’t wrap my mind around. That is staggering to consider.

I want to educate people. And so I explain, now and dozens of times each year in different settings, what living with bipolar II is like. So many people understand from experience the depression side of it. It’s a wave washing over me that can do anything from making me feel lethargic and anti-social, to pinning me to my bed, physically unable to move or interact with basic things that I need to interact with in my life, sometimes for days at a time. Mania is harder to explain, and is largely different for everyone. For me, I hyperfocus on a thing, or things, and can’t let go. My brain is totally unable to move off of it. I’ve explained this as sometimes a superpower (if I’m locked in on cleaning my house or finishing a big project of some kind), or a life-ruiner (if I am locked in on something like wanting to take giant risks, in anything ranging from making poor personal or sexual relationship choices, or throwing some shit into a bag and driving towards The West or whatever it is), or anything in between. I explain that the suicide rate I shared earlier is so high for folks with bipolar because of “mixed episodes”; a manic fixation on depression, an urgent drive to act on the pain. I explain how anxiety can paralyze me in my decisions, in my relationships, in even basic shit like logistics. Traveling via airplane with me…not a great experience. I am anxious about every single moment from when I leave my door until I get to where I need to go. Sometimes that feels like an itch that can’t be scratched, and sometimes it feels like my brain is on fire.

I am in control of none of these things. Any of them, alone or in combination, can completely level me, or worse. They are not moods. I am not sad, or hyper, or nervous when experiencing these symptoms. My brain has a chemical imbalance. My mental illness IS a physical illness.

All of these things, again, effect everything. It absolutely effects every corner of my life, from relationships to coaching to work to how I take care of myself. It effects those things every single day. Every day there is a challenge.

And I am just so exhausted by that.

And then there’s the stigma. The disorders are horrible to live with, they really are. But we are in a world and society that stigmatizes mental illness to a giant degree. That’s almost as damaging. There are a lot of cute t-shirts and Instagram posts saying something to the effect of, “It’s okay to not be okay.” That’s nice, it really is. Awareness has absolutely risen over the years. Those are nice words.

But it’s not ACTUALLY okay to not be okay. Not really. Not in this country, not in practice. As much as I know these posts have done real, tangible good, they have also concretely impacted my personal life in negative ways, as the author. I’m a master at hiding my illnesses from you. I have to be. If I don’t hide what I’m dealing with, you might think I’m crazy. You might think I’m unbalanced. You might think I am not fit to coach your ultimate team, or hold down a job in your company. You might just be uncomfortable. If I just shut up, and hide, people see me for who I am: a kind, goofy, capable, opinionated, thoughtful guy. Maybe some negative things too! Maybe I can be cruel and quick-tempered. But you’d view all those things as me. Not as a guy with a broken brain.

These aren’t hypotheticals. I have lost friendships after these posts, every single year. Not because I’m a bad friend, but because they didn’t know how to talk about this with me. They disagreed that it was a physical thing, or they were overwhelmed by the whole thing, or whatever. They left. I have, more rarely, had players whisper about me, not in response to my actions as a coach, but in response to finding out that I have bipolar disorder. How could someone who lacks control be trusted to make the biggest decisions our team has to face? I have had the people closest to me beg me to put my Facebook posts on private while I was looking for work, fearing that I would be disqualified from interviews after a hiring team Googled my name and found my posts on mental illness. I spoke to a recruiter about this, and they told me that it absolutely happens, and that I should delete the posts altogether if I wanted a fair chance at a good position. Also, I’m single (hi ladies! Slide into those DMs) at age 35, and my goodness this is a tough sell at any point in a conversation with someone new. Potential partners see a red flag and they run before they know me, or discard what they do know about me, putting my diagnosis before my person.

I want it to be okay to not be okay. It’s why I’m writing this. I want you to see it all, I want you to change your mind, I want you to see I am not my mental illnesses and that no one is, I want you to take action to make the world better for me and so many others.

But damn is that hard. Because there are ways for me to fight for control. Real ways. There are ways for me to develop and have tools that can prevent me from the pain being too great, or the mania to be so reality-shattering. Like any other physical ailment (again, this is a physical ailment), there is treatment. And like other physical ailments, it’s a mixtures of medicine and therapy. We can train our body, through medicines and new patterns, to grow stronger. That goes for our brains as well. I’ve experienced that, and I’ve seen it happen for others. Treatment is there, and it works.

And that’s what I tell people who are hurting and don’t know what to do: seek professional help. There are whole doctors who just studied this. It’s not weakness to seek help. It’s critical to your survival, and hopefully living a thriving life style.

But that’s the shit of it. That’s why it’s not actually okay right now to not be okay.

I had a really good year this year. I got a job at a company I adore. I grew in my confidence out of the wreckage of my 2020 and 2021. I met wonderful people. The team I coach won a championship at one of the highest levels of the sport. I am, very honestly, happy. With all of these good things, there are fewer triggers for me to wreck myself on. It’s been easier.

But it’s not fixed. A few weeks after the championship, I was flattened by a stretch of depression, the kind that I went from my bed to my bathroom to pee, and otherwise didn’t eat or move or talk to anyone for about four days. I was happy, but my brain still has something physically wrong with it.

And that brings me, finally, to my point. I had this incredible year, but because of a change of health insurance I lost access to my therapist and my psychiatrist. And therefore also my medicine. And here I am, a mental health advocate, who is constantly telling anyone who will listen how important it is to get professional help, who believes in the medicine, who has a steady job, who is highly functioning considering my diagnosis. There were no appointments available. No one within 20 miles who took my insurance who was accepting new patients. No one to sign my prescriptions. I need help. Medically. I know it. I’m seeking it out. It is not available.

Why?

Because our health care system is broken on a whole. Because it’s doubly so with mental health. Because mental health doctors are paid less than other doctors for just as much school, and we live in a capitalist society, and it’s a bad career decision to work in mental health if you are going to get paid much less and have the same huge school debt. Because, time and time again, when we talk about mental health as a country, it’s through the lens of a straight, white, male mass shooter with a mental health issue and a gun, and people ignore every other pattern there and point to the mental illness as the cause. There have been real, earnest discussions from both sides of the political aisle to give people with mental health disabilities fewer rights. To protect people from who they paint as the scary mentally ill people, even though statistically people with mental illnesses are vastly more likely to be the victims of gun violence, with no relevant statistical difference in the likelihood of being the attackers.

It’s not okay to not be okay. Not in society. Not if you want readily accessible care. Not if you want to be valued in a workplace. It’s a gigantic problem.

What I am asking is for you to care about this. Care about it if you have a loved one who lives with a mental illness. It’s not socially acceptable to make GoFundMes for bipolar, or other mental illnesses, even though the cost of treatment without insurance is thousands of dollars a year, and treatment with insurance is so hard to find. So literally give them money directly. If they don’t have the mental and emotional bandwidth to find accessible care, get on the phones and start calling places for them. Do work tangible work to make treatment an option for your loved one.

Care about it when you think about politicians and organizations you will support with your votes and dollars. Give money to nonprofits that work in mental health (I would ask that you give $15, or some other amount, to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Volunteer for those organizations. Vote for politicians that support policies of mental health care reform, and mental health care for our veterans, or our children, or literally anyone. Speak out against public figures who push damaging narratives about mental illness, especially if they are people you usually support.

I am tired with all of this. It is so hard to live with bipolar and anxiety in the very best of times. In the very best of times, I can be in grave danger. In the best of times, I can be locked out of receiving critical care. When things are going well, people will still judge me, and discard me, because of fear of something they do not understand.

If you are tired too, from your own life with a mental illness, I am with you. I understand you. It hurts and sometimes it feels like it’s never going to stop hurting. And sometimes it feels like you are on a great path and then you are knocked backwards. It’s exhausting, and it’s discouraging. But you have done it so far, and that makes you strong, regardless of how you feel. You’ve done it so far, and you are doing it today. That’s enough. It’s more than enough. It’s heroic. Show yourself grace when you go backwards; growth is never linear. Seek professional care, as challenging as that can be. Build your tools. Build a support system. You’ve done it so far. You have done it today. You can do it tomorrow.

Love y’all. Thanks for reading. It’s wild, you know. 15 years ago today I attempted suicide. Today I’m going to coach an exhibition ultimate frisbee showcase in front of tens of thousands of NFL fans. There’s so much life I’ve lived in those 15 years, and even in the 21 months since my last suicide attempt. I’m thankful. I’m grateful. I’m tired. Here’s to making another exhausted, hurt, hopeful post this time next year.