Last week, my youngest child celebrated her fourth birthday. With her long, delicate blond hair in need of a trim, she chose to visit the newly opened “Charming Tresses” salon instead of receiving a traditional gift. On her special day, I took her for a princess haircut and updo, complete with sparkly hairspray and a glittery heart tattoo that completed her royal look. She absolutely adored it!
Her excitement rivaled that of her “Pink and Purple Elsa Heart party,” which was a delightful twist on the typical birthday bash all the little girls seem to have this year. Grandma baked a stunning heart-shaped cake adorned with pastel purple and pink icing, topped with Elsa and Anna candles that made the day even more magical. One day, I’ll find the right moment to explain to her why I get emotional when we play Demi Lovato’s version of “Let It Go” from the iPad.
It’s all so vividly intertwined with my past.
Nine years ago, I found myself spending Christmas in a mental health facility. At just 26, I was blindsided by mental illness, leaving my family feeling helpless and fearful about my future. Questions loomed large: Would my marriage survive? Could I return to work? Would I ever regain a sense of normalcy?
We lived under a cloud of secrecy, whispering even at home, as if the outside world might unleash unseen consequences if they discovered I had bipolar disorder. The weight of shame was unbearable, muffling my tears into my pillow each night. Why me? Life felt like an insurmountable burden, and I often contemplated giving up because it seemed less painful.
I adhered to the “conceal, don’t feel” principle around friends and family, terrified of being seen as different, labeled, or judged. Yet inside me, a voice urged me to share my struggles. I realized that releasing my emotional turmoil could be cathartic. Hiding my true self was exhausting, so I finally decided to open up. I shared my story on my blog, and that was a pivotal moment for me.
Not every holiday season sparkles with joy and magic. Some can be spent in a mental health facility, but as the shock fades and recovery begins, we can take that crucial step towards healing by letting go of our burdens. Christmas will always hold a different meaning for me, as I am not the same person who entered that hospital.
Over these past nine years with bipolar disorder, I have learned that nobody is perfect; we all have our struggles and hidden truths. Since revealing my story nearly two years ago, my relationships have deepened in ways I never thought possible. I’ve formed more meaningful connections and developed new friendships by discussing the challenges I’ve faced.
When we reveal our scars, we liberate ourselves. The key to our hurting hearts lies within us. As difficult as it may be to unlock that door, the effort is genuinely rewarding. This month, my hope is that if you’re navigating darkness during the festive season, know that it’s okay to feel this way, and you can find your way back to the light. Don’t let secrets imprison you; help is available. When we embrace vulnerability and let go of shame, we open ourselves to love and healing.
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Summary
My journey through mental illness and recovery has taught me the importance of vulnerability and connection. Sharing my story has enriched my relationships and allowed me to embrace who I am. If you’re struggling, remember that you are not alone, and help is available.