Being a woman with bipolar disorder presents a unique set of challenges. There are few, fortunately only a few, times that I have really understood my gender as a woman. I have experienced microagressions that come along with living in a patriarchal society. I know what it is to be expected to live a certain kind of life because I am a woman which is often connected to domestic living and reproduction, both heteronormative representations of what it is to live in a cis-gendered female body.
The first time I really understood my gender as a significant part of my life and existence was after I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, both through being hypersensitive with how bipolar disorder is represented in the media and my direct encounters with people in my life. Somehow a woman is understood solely and primarily by our hormones and our genitalia. Our anger, our sadness, or our happiness is understood through the lens of the woman’s unpredictable existence in relation to estrogen and her reproductive organs.
I found that every healthcare provider was surprised and somewhat taken aback when my answer to whether or not I was promiscuous aligned with the expectation of my diagnosis. I have seen numerous representations of women with bipolar disorder presented as oversexed, promiscuous women, but altogether sexy in their wonton mania driven sex drive. But here I was, a closeted lesbian, already confused about my own sexuality that promiscuity was just too much for my sick and cycling mind to handle. But how could I explain this to people I encountered in Nebraska, one of the most conservative states in the U.S., especially when I wasn’t ready to deal with my own closetedness? The answer is simple, this symptom just wasn’t present. The idea of promiscuity of women living with bipolar disorder is a gendered understanding of female sexuality and mental illness, and a heteronormative understanding at that. Women are not, and never have, been given the leniency as our male counterparts to explore and express our sexuality without criticism and ridicule from outside voices.
Bipolar disorder in women is portrayed through the lens of brilliance and promiscuity, and altogether sexy in its messiness. A couple years ago ABC debuted a medical drama where the female protagonist was a brilliant surgeon living with bipolar disorder. She was messy and beautiful, sexy and unashamed of her sexiness, and a straight woman to boot. As I watched a few episodes I found it problematic that the same old tropes of bipolar disorder were being recycled over and over again. A beautiful woman with bipolar disorder is mysterious in her illness, and her struggle. And more recently Katie Holmes portrayed a woman in “Touched With Fire”, an indie flick, with bipolar disorder. While, a more honest portrayal, Holmes was still the main character, a beautiful woman even in her messiness and illness. Perhaps my critique is a repeat criticism of a lack of varying depictions of women in film and television. These pitfalls are all the more dramatic when they are combined with mental illness, much like with race. Hello, intersectionality!
I would like to think that my mental illness is sexy in some way; that it makes me desirable. But in all reality, the messiness of my bipolar disorder isn’t cute. The physical clutter around my life isn’t filled with artistic beauty and poetic brilliance. It’s gross really, the clutter, the wrecked relationships that I fill in my life aren’t endearing, they are tragic and painful. My self-harm and suicide ideation aren’t some kind of twisted, darkness that is romantic. It isn’t heroic my life with bipolar disorder. It is a constant struggle. My scars aren’t cute or a reminder of my strength. They are reminders that this a constant battle that I can see mapped out on my body. My art isn’t worthy of being framed and appreciated. My art is a depiction of the darkness that I find myself in.
Sexism has a definite impact on how we understand and perceive mental illness, how we interact and engage with it.
During a visit with the doctor that had finally diagnosed me I explained that I was still cycling, that my current medication cocktail wasn’t quite what it needed to be. And the first question out of that man’s mouth (a man who had pictures of his wife and children in his office) was whether or not I was menstruating. I was nearly 21 at this point, and I knew my body in that aspect fairly well. I understood how my female hormones impacted my mood and emotions. But my maturing mental illness through all of that out of whack. As a woman, I so desperately wanted to get back to that place where I understood my body through my female uterus cleansing activities. I wanted that simplicity of timing, unwanted acne, and chocolate cravings that came every month. As I was sitting across from this man I was stunned, that my doctor only saw me as a vagina with unruly hormones, a vagina that didn’t understand my lady cycle. I was asking this man to help me understand and better control my body. I was asking this man for help, to trust that I was telling the truth of my experience. Instead, I was reduced to my uterus. That was my last appointment with that man, I saw women mental healthcare providers after that. First, an amazing APRN that carried me through the hardest battle of my mental illness thus far, and later a psychiatrist that valued my autonomy and trusted me as I trusted her.
As a woman, I am fully aware that my body is legislated against and talked about, often without my voice even considered. As a woman, with a mental illness, I am often told how my brain is working, what my feelings mean, and even how I should deal with my mental illness. As a woman, I live in a world where those who do not have a vagina, a uterus, ovaries, and has never had them, those who do not identify as women feel they knew more about my body than I do. And compounded with the reality of living with a mental illness, everyone has an opinion. I live in a world, like so many other women (ALL women and individuals with vaginas, uteri, and ovaries) where we are told how to feel and how to live in our bodies. Living with a mental illness means that there are other parts of my identity that impact who I am and how I am perceived by the world. Being a gay woman with a mental illness are always enmeshed in each other. I know what it is to live in a world where I am judged against those with the most privilege: White, heterosexual, middle-class, protestant, cis-gendered men. I do not live within the parameters of heteronormativity, nor do I willingly live to promote it. My life, as a woman with a mental illness, with a disability, is negatively impacted by the heteronormative, male-centered society I live in. And it is finally time to call it out in how it impacts the lives of those living with chronic mental illnesses.
And yes, the cover photo is a painting by Georgia O'Keefe. Yes, I am using it to represent a vagina. Deal with it.
