Dear Diseased Me: I Am More Than the Labels Attached to My Mental Health

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Have you ever stopped to Google the symptoms of something you think you might have?

Did it make you feel better?

Or did you walk away from the search feeling like you had just added another problem to the list?

There are days when my labels feel too heavy.

Anxiety.

Bipolar.

OCD.

Sometimes they feel less like mental health diagnoses and more like life sentences.

Maybe that is because mental illness is often treated like something you manage rather than something you recover from.

I have been told that because I have bipolar disorder, I may need medication for the rest of my life.

I may need therapy for the rest of my life.

And to me, that can make life feel hard.

Not only because of the symptoms themselves.

It is also the knowledge that something inside my brain may always require attention.

Something may always need to be monitored.

Something may always need to be managed.

Sometimes I do not want to manage myself.

Sometimes I just want to be.

Is It Me or My Mental Health?

Every day, something new seems to happen inside my brain.

And I find myself trying to determine whether it is regular me or mentally ill me.

But those should not be two separate people.

They are both me.

The version of me who is organized is me.

The version who becomes overwhelmed is also me.

The version who feels excited and capable is me.

The version who cannot get off the couch is still me.

Mental health has a way of making you feel as though you constantly need to identify which parts of yourself are real.

But if I experienced it, thought it, or felt it, it came from me.

That does not mean every thought is true.

It does mean I do not need to split myself into acceptable and unacceptable versions.

Apparently, I Might Have ADHD Too

Today, I watched a funny video online.

Someone had mixed two songs together.

The joke was that people with ADHD could hear both songs clearly, understand both sets of lyrics, and switch between them while someone with a “normal” brain might struggle.

I listened to it and immediately heard both songs.

I could switch back and forth between which one I was singing.

I could follow both sets of lyrics while also reading the comments.

I was excited.

I thought:

Wow. Look at this cool skill I have.

So naturally, I went to show my husband.

He has been diagnosed with ADHD.

He listened and laughed because his brain processes things that way all the time.

I told him that made sense for him because he has ADHD.

But I was impressed that I could do it as a normal person.

Then he looked at me and asked:

Do you not think you have ADHD?

Absolutely not.

I have never been diagnosed with ADHD.

No one has ever told me that I have ADHD.

And he reminded me that I do have some symptoms.

There is nothing wrong with having ADHD.

I know that.

But my immediate thought was:

Great. Something else.

When Curiosity Turns Into a Google Search

After that conversation, I did what I usually do.

I went into my office and started Googling.

ADHD symptoms in women.

ADHD symptoms in adult women.

ADHD and OCD together.

I went down the rabbit hole.

Some of what I read did not sound like me.

Some of it did.

And I did not like that.

Not because ADHD is bad.

Not because people with ADHD are broken.

My first fear was that it would mean another diagnosis.

Another medication.

Another thing that needed to be managed.

Another thing wrong with me.

I live a lot of my life based on what I believe I need to fix.

That is part of how my OCD appears.

I try to fix things.

I try to control things.

I try to organize what feels uncertain.

And I do not feel like I can afford another diagnosis.

What If Knowing Could Help?

The obvious question is:

Would I get evaluated?

Would I find out whether ADHD is something I should consider?

What if knowing could help me?

My honest answer in that moment was no.

I did not want to know.

And that is sad.

It is sad that mental health carries so much stigma that someone might choose not to seek information that could help them.

We would rather struggle quietly than risk gaining another label.

We would rather wonder what is wrong than hear a name attached to it.

Because once something has a name, it can feel more real.

And once it feels real, it can feel permanent.

When a Diagnosis Feels Like Proof You Are Broken

I remember talking with my therapist about being diagnosed.

I did not like it.

I cried.

I was upset.

I immediately felt like something was wrong with me.

My therapist tried to explain that the diagnosis did not mean I was broken.

It meant there were imbalances in my brain that might respond to medication and treatment.

But no matter how gently she explained it, what I heard was:

You are broken.

You need to be fixed.

I hated that feeling.

Anxiety was difficult, but it felt like something I could understand.

People had told me for years that I showed signs of OCD.

I knew I had certain tendencies.

I like the television volume on specific numbers.

I prefer parking in the same area.

I check my locks several times before bed.

I use the same bathroom stall whenever possible.

Those things felt like minor inconveniences.

They did not feel like something that should define my life.

Bipolar disorder felt different.

That diagnosis was harder to swallow.

Bipolar Felt Bigger

Bipolar disorder did not feel like a small inconvenience.

Mania is hard.

Depression is hard.

The changes in energy, motivation, emotion, and thought patterns can be exhausting.

But the symptoms were not the only thing that frightened me.

Society’s attitude toward bipolar disorder frightened me too.

Think about how often you have heard someone say:

The weather is so bipolar.

That person is acting bipolar.

The word is usually used to describe something unpredictable, frustrating, irrational, or unstable.

It is rarely used kindly.

No one says:

That person is so cool. I want to spend time with them because they are bipolar.

The word becomes an insult.

Then people who actually live with bipolar disorder have to hear it used that way over and over.

And eventually, you start wondering what people think the label says about you.

What Does the Label Make People Assume?

After my diagnosis, I became careful about what I shared.

People make judgments quickly.

If they hear bipolar, they may assume they already understand how you behave.

They may believe you are unstable.

Dangerous.

Unreliable.

Difficult.

Out of control.

But hiding my diagnosis did not help.

In fact, staying silent would have gone against what I believed.

If society says every person with bipolar disorder fits into one specific box, then my existence outside that box matters.

There are people who know me who would never guess I have bipolar disorder.

But I do.

That does not mean they misunderstood me.

It means they misunderstood bipolar disorder.

We Decide Who People Are Before Knowing Them

We are quick to define people by mental health and developmental diagnoses.

He has ADHD, so he must behave a certain way.

She is autistic, so she must communicate a certain way.

They have OCD, so they must be extremely clean.

She has bipolar disorder, so she must be unpredictable.

We take one piece of information and decide it explains the whole person.

Why can people not simply be?

Is a person autistic?

Or do they have autism?

Am I bipolar?

Or do I have bipolar disorder?

Am I nothing more than the sum of the diagnoses listed in my medical records?

Or am I a person who experiences symptoms connected to those diagnoses?

The wording may seem small.

But the way we describe ourselves can change the way we see ourselves.

Welcome to the Club

When I meet other people with similar diagnoses, they are often quiet about it.

They might lower their voice and say:

Yeah, I have bipolar disorder too.

And my response is usually something like:

Welcome to the club.

Same, queen.

Same, king.

That usually earns a smile.

Because suddenly, someone recognizes them.

They do not have to explain every thought.

Every emotional reaction.

Every way their brain interprets a conversation.

They know that someone else understands at least part of the experience.

There is comfort in not being the only person in the room whose mind works differently.

Different Does Not Mean Crazy

Even when we do not understand someone’s experience, why do we automatically label it crazy?

Why can it not simply be different from our own?

Something not being made for you does not make it wrong.

Something you do not understand does not make it irrational.

Something you would not choose does not make it shameful.

It may simply be unfamiliar.

And unfamiliarity is not proof that something is broken.

My Pens Are Just My Pens

I have a strong obsession with pens.

If I pulled out all the bags of pens around me, some people would probably start asking questions.

But people collect all kinds of things.

Trains.

Coins.

Shells.

Stamps.

We often look at those collections and say:

That is a cool interest.

Why can my pens not simply be something I enjoy?

In my field, I work with children who become attached to specific interests.

It might be trains.

Nintendo Switches.

Daniel Tiger.

Lucas the Spider.

Those interests may help them feel safe.

They may provide comfort.

They may help organize a world that feels overwhelming.

Sometimes a strong interest is simply a strong interest.

It does not always need to become proof that something is wrong.

Starting Things and Not Finishing Them

While we were discussing ADHD symptoms, my husband and best friend mentioned starting projects and not finishing them.

I felt called out.

They did not even have to say anything directly.

I immediately became defensive.

That response probably said enough on its own.

I do start things.

I do not always finish them.

I have supplies for resin projects.

Epoxy.

Scrapbooking.

Pens.

Pencils.

Markers.

Crayons.

Coloring books.

There are more hobby supplies in the garage.

I never begin a project thinking:

I am going to spend money on this and then lose interest.

I genuinely enjoy it when I start.

I still like the idea later.

I simply stop doing it.

My husband even asked about the book I am writing.

I told him it was going well.

Then he asked when I started it.

That question required more thought than it should have.

It has taken me a while.

But does the amount of time mean the work does not matter?

I Do Not Want to Be Defined by What I Finish

I do not want to be known only by what I start and stop.

I do not want to be defined by what I complete.

What I fail at.

What I succeed at.

Mental health sometimes makes everything feel like evidence.

Instead of asking why someone changed direction, people ask how many things they have abandoned.

Instead of recognizing curiosity, creativity, or changing priorities, they see failure.

I still love the idea of making wood art.

I still enjoy crafting.

I like creating beautiful things.

The fact that I have not returned to every hobby does not erase the joy I experienced while doing it.

Why Does Everything Need a Label?

It is unfortunate that everything seems to be connected to something you might have.

Every behavior becomes a symptom.

Every preference becomes evidence.

Every personality trait needs a category.

And labels are everywhere.

Are you straight?

Gay?

Lesbian?

Trans?

Cisgender?

Neurotypical?

Neurodivergent?

Sometimes I want to say:

I am just me.

I am Jamesha.

I was born in September, and I am excited about my birthday.

I am adventurous, but I like to plan.

I am highly organized.

I also become overwhelmed, and sometimes my organized spaces turn into clutter.

I can hyperfocus on something for hours.

Other times, I want to lie on the couch and do absolutely nothing.

All of those things are me.

I Wear Too Many Hats for One Box

I wear a lot of hats.

Sometimes I am a cook.

Sometimes I am a baker.

Sometimes I am a chauffeur.

Sometimes I am a housekeeper.

Sometimes I am a writer.

A wife.

A mother.

A friend.

A behavioral health professional.

I can move between those roles without being trapped inside one of them.

Why can my mental health not work the same way?

Why does a diagnosis place me inside a box that feels impossible to climb out of?

Why does bipolar disorder become the explanation for everything?

Why does OCD become my personality?

Why does anxiety become my identity?

A diagnosis should explain part of my experience.

It should not erase the rest of me.

Why “Diseased Me”?

For me, having mental illness can feel like being diseased.

I cannot escape it.

I cannot remove it.

There is no surgery that takes it out of my brain.

I can medicate it.

I can attend therapy.

I can learn coping skills.

I can build routines.

But it does not simply disappear.

That can be difficult to accept.

And still, at the end of the day, I am me.

I Am Still Comfortable Being Me

Would I like life to be easier?

Absolutely.

Would I choose fewer difficult symptoms?

Of course.

But overall, I am comfortable being me.

I only know how to be me.

And I do not want to spend my entire life trying to become someone else simply because society is uncomfortable with parts of who I am.

If you have anxiety, bipolar disorder, ADHD, autism, OCD, depression, or any other diagnosis, remember that you are human first.

The diagnosis may explain symptoms.

It may influence the way you process the world.

It may require care and treatment.

But it is not your entire identity.

It is part of you.

It is not all of you.

Say It Loudly

I think we should be able to say loudly:

Yes, I have bipolar disorder.

Yes, I have anxiety.

Yes, I have OCD.

Yes, I may have symptoms of ADHD.

And that is only part of who I am.

It does not determine whether I am kind.

Creative.

Intelligent.

Funny.

Loving.

Capable.

Reliable.

Adventurous.

Worthy.

A diagnosis may change how I move through the world.

It does not decide whether I deserve to exist in it.

My Bite of Pie

My bite of pie today was listening to what people said about what I might have without allowing myself to obsess over it.

I am not going to let the possibility consume me.

I am not going to allow another potential label to convince me that I am less than I was before I heard it.

Because at the end of the day, I am still going to be me.

A diagnosis might give me more information.

It will not create or destroy my identity.

I hope you remember that about yourself too.

You are not required to hate yourself because your brain works differently.

You are not broken because you need support.

You are not weak because you take medication.

You are not less human because you have a diagnosis.

You are still you.

Today is another page in the story. It doesn’t have to be perfect.

It just has to be written.

Before you close your journal tonight, ask yourself:

What was your bite of pie today?

Until tomorrow,

Love you loud.