Showing posts with label lived experience. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lived experience. Show all posts

Saturday, February 1, 2025

A Bipolar Woman’s Self-Reflection: Black Privilege - A Dedication to My Ancestors

A Bipolar Woman’s Self-Reflection: Black Privilege - A Dedication to My Ancestors

The following piece of work was a reflection written in 2016 after experiencing what I call ‘polite racism’ now known as microaggression in my workplace. The interaction that occurred was so quick and seemingly insignificant but it had a profound effect on me. It wasn’t that I couldn’t feel the presence of racism as it stared me in the face the morning I made coffee in my office kitchen and was told it was my job to serve others in my office and I should feel grateful to be there. Rather, it was the privilege of knowing my lived experiences to that point that dictated that walking away from the indignity being handed to me was my right as a Black woman who had fought and earned her seat at every and any table I chose to sit at.


There are always small minds lurking around every corner but It’s how you choose to react to their attempts to tear you down, upset your spirit or steal your joy. On that day in my history I thought it was important not to feel anger and indignation but to reflect on the lived experiences of my ancestors and myself that make me privileged to be black in the world that I inherited and to express empathy and understanding for those who still can’t embrace my blackness.    


Black Privilege-A Dedication to My Ancestors 

 

I studied history at Carleton University for four years and I have a Bachelor of Arts Honors in the subject. It’s not a Master’s or a PhD and I am not professing to be an expert but I do have four years (+) foundation on the topic.

 

I have studied Canadian, American, European, Asian and African history. I have studied the history of the world, which is re-written as everyday passes, so it is impossible to ever study it fully.

 

But this is what I have learned and some of the conclusions I have come to, again based on what I learned.

 

In the history of the world, at some point EVERYONE WAS OPPRESSED BY SOMEONE FOR SOME SEEMINGLY VALID REASON THAT MADE SENSE IN THAT TIME AND AT THAT TIME.

 

The English, for example, oppressed the Europeans, the Indians of Southeast Asia, the Asians of South East Asia, the Irish, the Scottish and Africans—this period in history is called Colonization.

 

They justified their actions with religion and man-made laws and years of feudal tradition and a variety of other territorial ideologies that I won’t go into, because it doesn’t really matter the reason…it’s a fact…it happened.

 

Before the British Empire, there was the Ottoman Empire and the Roman Empire etc. And for some reason they thought it was a good idea to repress and place value on people and their families and their lives.

 

A hierarchy was created, the concept was developed, and it has existed since the beginning of time.

 

Leaders, lead and followers, follow. Sometimes there were good leaders who had the best interest of the people at heart.

 

More often there were leaders that made selfish decisions, let absolute power cloud their judgment and cause immeasurable, reprehensible damage.

To rule is to serve, some people serve others, and some serve themselves. This is a face for the Ancestors of the people who currently inherit the world.

 

I have now given you a very broad and general statement about centuries and centuries of history—social history to be specific. It is up to you to go and do your research and then see if you truly agree or disagree with the next statements I am about to make.

 

Though I have studied world history, the history that I am most concerned with is my own.

 

I was born in Guyana, South America. My ancestors were a part of the Transatlantic Slave Trade. Essentially, the ships that left from Africa went to different parts of the world, not just North America.

 

If I were born a slave, I would have been raised on a Guyanese sugar plantation. If I looked the way I do now, had the same spirit or energy, if I could make people laugh or sing a song or had any special talent, I would have been a House Slave.

 

If I had no value beyond the ability to work long hours in extreme conditions, I would have been in the fields.

 

Based on my knowledge of the Slave Trade and Slavery, I believe this is all true. This is what African slavery looked like all around the world.

 

I have also thought about what I would have done if I were a slave. Would I be born and live and die a slave? Would I rage against the injustice of the experience and fight and flee to freedom?

 

I can say with some measure of confidence that I would run, fight and flee. I would risk getting caught and beaten and killed. I would do anything I needed to do to get out.

 

But I am not a slave. I was not born a slave. I have not lived as a slave and I will not die a slave. So, I can’t say what I would have done, only what I hope I would have the courage to do in that situation.

 

I am so grateful to my Ancestors for carrying that burden, for being strong, for trusting in God to cast away their worries and fears, for falling in love and making babies and preserving traditions; for being resilient so that I would never have to be in the world that they left me, in the world that I inherited.

 

Now when I speak to you about my Ancestors, I am not talking about the experiences that shaped an entire faction of people.

 

I am speaking about the Ancestors that are directly responsible for me being alive because they are the only people I feel I have a right to speak on behalf of. They are a part of me, they make up my history and therefore I have that right.

 

Based on what I know about my Ancestors, I would say half made the best of an extremely, horrifically bad situation and found a way not just to survive but to thrive in their new circumstance—the other half did not;

 

They were bitter and angry and resentful and afraid and that was their choice. That was how they dealt with the destruction, degradation and devastation that slavery caused.

 

There are 400 (+) years of history documenting the slave experience, interpreting and re-interpreting them and it is painful to listen to, look at and read.

 

So, I never tried to tackle it all but instead I tried to make sense of how I came to be here and what I wanted my living history to be.

 

This is what I know about how I came to be in the world that I inherited…

 

My family, my parents had a series of life experiences that led them to each other and then on December 30, 1982, I was born. That is when My History begins.

 

My parents worked hard, they sacrificed and fought for me. They took me from a place where our Ancestors were slaves, where I could have been born and lived and died as a slave and they freed me.

 

Because my parents grew up in Guyana, they knew all the challenges that I would have to face and that I would inherit if we stayed.

 

They wanted better for me, more than they had, they had a dream just like Martin Luther King Jr. and they did everything in their power to make it happen; fast forward 42 years to today…

 

I am a 1st Generation Guyanese immigrant with a Bachelor of Arts Honors in History, a Graduate Certificate in Public Relations and Communications from Humber College and a Graduate Certificate in Event Management from Durham College.

 

I have a deep and abiding trust in the Lord that He continues to walk with me on my purpose filled journey through life and He will be there to catch me when I stumble or fall.

 

I am currently pursuing my goals of being an author and public speaker with dreams of pursuing other things and the confidence and security of knowing that everything I want is within my reach. I just have to keep working hard and I will get there.

 

My past experiences, my living history, the story I have written for myself because of my parent’s hard work, courage, perseverance, lack of pride, resilience, patience, tolerance, and overall awesomeness—I know every dream I have ever had is going to become a reality.

 

This glass ceiling that I heard so much about growing up; the limitations of Black People, my parents shattered that ceiling before it ever got in my way, so I have lived a life as if it never existed.

 

Ideas, criticisms, labels and stereotypes associated with black people, they always offended me, but I never let them affect the decisions I made about my life and future.

 

If the world said I couldn’t do it because I am Black, I was always hell-bent on showing them I could do it, not because I am black but because I am me…

 

Onika L. Dainty…the sum total of my experiences, living history, constantly learning, never asking permission or forgiveness (unless I really need it which, I usually don’t with permission but always do with forgiveness).

 

If I fail, I take a step back and ask myself why? I look to my support system of family and friends because I know they are always there.

 

And I ultimately learned not to blame people outside of my control for the things that are inside my control.

 

This security and freedom have given me the confidence to smile and laugh and talk to and listen to and learn from all kinds of people from all different parts of the world that I inherited. I look at things from my point of view and let people look at things from theirs.

 

I do not judge or diminish other people’s experiences. I do not subscribe to negative labels, and I do not let the concept of Racism and all the burdens it brings to dictate my actions.

 

I am kind to everyone until they give me a reason not to be. I try not to be cruel but instead remember that they are the sum total of their life experience and that they are living history so, every day is a new opportunity to change.

 

I believe in love and not hate, though I know they both exist in the world that I inherited. I know how conflict and wars between people and nations begin but I still can’t say I understand why because although it is happening in the world that I inherited it is not a part of my living history.

 

I can only be responsible and accountable for the decisions I make when faced with conflict, adversity and challenges because according to my Ancestors and my history and what I have learned, all that they expect of me is:

 

To do my best, to work hard, to trust in God, to fight when it is time to fight, to flee when it is time to flee, to love and fall in love and make babies and to pass on traditions; to respect them and the burden they carried on their backs across an entire ocean, beyond 400 (+) years of struggle and pain to give me the gifts I have today—the gift of security, safety, confidence and support.

 

That is the world that I live in, it’s the only one I can exist in, the only one I know and can survive and thrive in like they did. That is the world that they left me, the world that I inherited.

 

That is my Black Privilege. What’s yours?

 

In Recognition of Black History Month and My Ancestors


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Saturday, January 4, 2025

Life Lessons Series: The Three Things in Life That You Can’t Get Back Once They Are Gone

Life Lessons Series: The Three Things in Life That You Can’t Get Back Once They Are Gone

Life Lesson #2

“There are three things in life that you can’t get back once they are gone. A shot arrow, a lost opportunity and the spoken word.”-My Daddy

My father is a man of very few words, at times, then there are other times his speech and presence commands a room through the magic of his storytelling. When it comes to me however, growing up my father said very little but what he did share with his eldest daughter was life lessons in the form of poetic advice that opened my mind and settled deep in the soul of my consciousness where I could reach them anytime or anywhere and at every point in my life. All that was required of me was that I listen, remember and apply his sage advice. The following memory is a seemingly insignificant story of spilt milk and how my father made this mishap into one of the most profound life lessons I have ever learned.


When I was seven years old I spilt an entire carton of buttermilk on my mom’s loveseat. I was attempting to churn butter, something I had learned on a recent school trip. I begged my mom to buy a carton of buttermilk so I could attempt to replicate this incredible process of turning liquid into solid butter and after much hesitation and a child’s persistence my mother gave in and bought me a litre carton of the milk. It was a Saturday morning when I would begin my project. Before I started, I jumped on the loveseat, grabbed the remote control and turned on the television to my usual Saturday morning cartoons. I then entered our apartment kitchen, went into the refrigerator to retrieve the buttermilk then headed to the bottom cupboard where my mom stored a myriad of old butter containers she reused as tupperware and refused to throw away. 


I sat down on my mother’s loveseat and began the process of shaking the buttermilk in the butter container, just as the kids were taught on our school trip. I shook and shook and shook periodically checking if milk had turned to creamy butter. Eventually my seven year old hands got tired and slippery so I decided to take a break and watch cartoons instead. As I put the butter container on the seat beside me, and shifted my focus to Bugs Bunny. The butter bowl tipped and thick, half-churned buttermilk spilled onto the right side cushion of my mother’s beloved brown loveseat. My parents hadn’t quite gotten up for the morning, so using my 7-year-old logic I took the opportunity to turn over the offended cushion to the cleaner side because I figured what they didn’t know I couldn’t get in trouble for.


I continued on with my morning routine of cartoons and dry Frosted Flakes, then my day filled with playing with my toys and my weekend in anxiety waiting to be caught for my actions. But time passed and nothing was said so by Monday morning when it was time to go to school I had stopped worrying about the split milk and by week’s end the milk was a distant memory. However, on Saturday morning, one full week after Milk-gate my mother noticed a funny smell that permeated the apartment. I sat silently on the left side of the love seat knowing what was assaulting my mothers senses and watched her frantically try to find the origins of the offending odor. My mom, in an accusatory fashion asked my father if he knew where the smell was coming from and he non-committally shrugged his shoulders as if to say “What smell?” which drove my mother crazy. Then she turned to me and asked, “Onika do you know where that smell is coming from?”


With a straight face and all the cowardly courage I felt in that moment I said “No,” I lied to my mother, not for the first time or the last in my lifetime but this was a significant moment in the history of my lies because in the past I could always remember telling a lie or making up a story because I didn’t know the truth. I always tried to tell the truth but this time the lie was for purely selfish reasons even if that reason was self-preservation. After an hour of tearing through our apartment my mother gave up and left to do her weekly grocery shop.   


It was just me and my dad now. He called me over to sit beside him and in a quiet knowing tone he said, “Onika LaToya, tell me about the spilt milk” then he reached over to the adjacent love seat and flipped over the offended cushion, the one one the right side, the one I had been avoiding all week, the one that in my heart I knew hadn’t disappeared but was waiting in the wings to destroy me. At that moment I hated butter, I hated buttermilk and I hated that smelly loveseat. I felt absolute terror at what my father was going to do..this was his reaction:


He earnestly looked me in the eyes as if to say,’Little girl I’ve got nothing but time and all day to waste it.” So panicked, the truth came rushing out. I told him about school, the bullying and my hopes that making the best butter in class would make it stop; I told him about spilling the milk on the love seat the week before and I told him that I had lied to mom. After barely taking a breath during my confession tears stained my cheeks, my dad opened his arms and I ran to him. He comforted me, stroked my hair and soothed me back to myself. He knew he had a highly emotional daughter that often allowed herself to get swept away in those emotions. Then my dad did something I will never forget– he laughed out loud.


Then he said, “ Onika LaToya I’ve been sitting in sour milk stink for a week now, you think I didn’t know it was you that split the milk? I just wanted you to be the one to tell mom or me what you had done. Up til now your mom still blames me but we both know the truth don’t we? And it’s too late to tell your mother, the damage has been done and can’t be undone.”


My dad’s face became somber and he looked at me squarely in the eyes to impart a lesson I haven’t forgotten to this day. This lesson has been my moral compass and my guiding light when I was lost and unsure what direction to choose. “Onika LaToya, sweetheart, there are three things in life you can’t get back once they are gone: a lost opportunity, a shot arrow and the spoken word.”


He continued, “You had an opportunity last week to tell your mom the truth and you didn’t because you were afraid. Instead of telling your mom the truth you lied again because you were afraid. And darling you must always be careful with the arrows you shoot because once it leaves the bow it can end up in the air, in the ground or in someone's heart.”


My daddy taught me to always be fearless in the face of opportunity, speak the truth and be careful where I shoot my shots. It took me years to understand what he meant that day but a lesson learned as a result of childhood follies is a lesson learned for life. I also learned that morning that the only thing you can get back once you’ve made a mistake is love, forgiveness and understanding but it may not always be the case. Thanks Daddy for teaching me this valuable lesson, for your forgiveness and love when I shoot first and think later.

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Monday, December 30, 2024

Life Lessons Series: A Bipolar Woman's Self-Reflection Birthday Entry: 42 Years of Lessons

A Bipolar Woman's Self-Reflection Birthday Entry: 42 Years of Lessons

Life Lesson #1

Today is my 42nd Birthday and honestly, after the last few years I didn't think I would make it here or have so much to celebrate. My life to this point has been full of ups and downs, losses, bittersweet moments, traumatic experiences filling me with pain and longing for peace. I have had  few cherished times that passed by too quickly to feel real or tangible. I have experienced success and I have experienced many failures. I have fallen far and fast and through courage and resilience I have picked myself up again and moved forward on my journey toward personal wellness and happiness. The lessons I have learned along the way have led me to a place where self-love, self-compassion and self-acceptance are the key to how I currently move in a world that I realize a long time ago is unforgiving and owes me nothing. I have fought my way through low-self esteem and anxiety that invaded my thoughts, mental illness that I previously believed would destroy me and I have conquered an addiction that could have killed me but still I’m standing strong in the face of adversity. 


The life lessons I have collected on my journey of self-discovery have given me peace, joy and a self-awareness that I hold close to my heart like a treasured gem, precious and priceless. Lessons learned from the countless people who have loved and cared for me over the years, even from those who were my adversaries, the ones that didn’t want to see me succeed but have taught me something valuable about myself and life. So for my 42nd birthday my gift to myself is to reflect on all I’ve learned, on the lessons that have shaped the incredible woman I never thought I’d be but managed to become through all the tragedy, triumphs, trials and tribulations. I want to enter this upcoming year knowing where I have come from so I will never forget who I am. There are simply too many valuable lessons I’ve learned in my lifetime to fit in one entry so I will share one gem at a time during my 42nd year in hopes that these lessons will touch your lives as deeply as they’ve touched mine. Let the lesson begin. 


Lesson 1: Learning to Love Yourself is the Greatest Love of All- Whitney Houston and My Mama


Although it was the late and great Whitney Houston that coined the phrase in her classic 80’s melody, it was my mama who made sure this motto rang loud and clear in my head since I was a young child. I would come in from school and tell her stories of the bullying and mistreatment that occurred non-stop since we arrived in Canada in 1988. I was always what some call different, it wasn’t just the way I spoke or the baby fat that bulged in the clothes I wore, it was my defiant attitude and large personality that didn’t seem to fit into the mold that others were constantly trying to make for me. I was a square peg being forced into a round hole and I refused to conform. Even as a child my family knew I marched to the beat of my own drum but I was simply unaware that the melody it played didn’t please everyone around me, and one of my greatest flaws is my need to please others, to feel love and acceptance from everyone, to be everything for everyone leaving nothing for myself. When I would tell my mother the other children didn’t like me, that they constantly made fun of every aspect of my personality, my speech, what I ate, what I wore but especially my weight she’d say the same three things: “Your mama loves you, Jesus loves you and learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all.”


I knew the first two statements were true but it took many years and many experiences to finally find the greatest love of all inside of myself. There was a period in my life when my self-esteem plummeted. Though my accent had faded, my clothes had changed, I had assimilated to Canadian culture but my body refused to cooperate. When I was 11-years-old I developed an eating disorder. I was unhappy with my body so I would go days and sometimes weeks without eating. From this dangerous habit I grew to hate everything I saw when I looked in the mirror. For years kids at school called me a fat pig and eventually I started to believe them. My circumstances led to the constant negative thought that I was not thin enough or pretty enough. Looking back now I can see that puberty had actually been very kind to me. I had a small figure with overly large breasts and even when others would tell me I was beautiful I was loathed to believe them. This aspect of eating disorders is now called Body Dysmorphia (an obsession with a perceived flaw in your appearance) but back then there was no name.


This journey of body obsession started in my youth and would continue into my 20s when I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder at 24-years-old, a mood disorder that wreaked havoc on my emotions and my waistline. The medication I took to stabilize my mood causes excessive weight gain and increased appetite. For years and until present I have continued to struggle with my self-image. What I perceive to be true about my figure others simply couldn’t see. My taller than average frame allowed me to carry my weight well but all I could see was an unattractive overweight woman. I felt unlovable, unworthy and spent most of my time trying to be invisible. I simply couldn’t see what others insisted they saw in me, a beautiful woman. I seemed forever stuck in a loop of self-loathing. 


I have tried every diet-water, watermelon, Keto, Atkins, fasting, medically supervised weightloss programs, cabbage soup, I tried detoxes, weightloss pills and skinny teas. I tried running the weight off until my ankles swelled and sprained and I could no longer run. I went back to unhealthy habits like starving myself and purging my food until I did damage to my esophagus. Finally in 2019 after I ate a dozen donuts and entered my apartment washroom to expel my belly, I took a good look at myself in the mirror and said to my reflection “No Onika, Enough!” I sat on my bathroom floor and cried my eyes out and came to the realization that I was simply sick and tired or being sick and tired. I decided on that bathroom floor it was time to try surrender and radical acceptance, the hardest two principles I’ve ever had to practice. Simply put, self-loathing is exhausting.


I started saying a daily mantra that I created which spoke to the broken little girl inside me and the lost self-pitying woman I was tired of being: “I’m fabulous just as I am and all by myself,” at first I didn’t believe it but after years of saying it out loud, multiple times daily especially when I was feeling low something inside of me began to change. I started having numerous positive experiences that were proof these words were true and I slowly gained confidence in myself and began to break down the negative narrative that had always kept my self-esteem in a low place. 


I had to relearn myself along my journey to self-acceptance and rewrite the negative thought pattern that had become fixtures in my life. This is what that looked like: 


I love that I’m intelligent, 

I love that I make people laugh, 

I love that I am kind, 

I love that I’m well spoken, 

I love that I’m empathetic, 

I love that I’m a good listener, 

I love that I’m a good friend, 

I love that I’m a good granddaughter, 

I love that I’m a good aunt, 

I love that I’m a good daughter, 

I love that I’m a good sister, 

I love that I’m a fighter, 

I love that I’m resilient, 

I love my Bipolar superpower, 

I love my nose, 

I love my eyes, 

I love my freckles, 

I love my smile,

I love my rack, 

I love my legs, 

I love the skin I’m currently in, 

I love that I’m a work in progress,

I love that this love list keeps growing everyday and with every new experience.


Now after 42 years of experiences and lessons I have fallen in love with myself and when I look at my body in the mirror I see the body that has sustained me though some of the most difficult trials life has thrown at me. I embrace my body meeting myself where I’m at and practicing healthy principles of nutrition and exercise rather than fad diets and detoxes. I embrace my mental illness calling it my superpower and I embrace my God given potential knowing that my talents, humour and intelligence are the key to my future success. I came to the realization that I can’t be everything to everyone and filling my mental, spiritual, physical and emotional cup comes first. The reality is that some people are going to dislike me for the things I believe, the words I write, the clothes I wear, the shoes on my feet and the hair on my head and that's life. Not everyone can love or even respect the person you are but my mama and Whitney Houston were right: Learning to Love Yourself is the Greatest Love of All.

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Saturday, November 9, 2024

Understanding the Lived Experience of Women with Bipolar Disorder: A Deep Dive

Understanding the Lived Experience of Women with Bipolar Disorder: A Deep Dive

Living with Bipolar disorder can often feel like navigating a complex maze, filled with unexpected turns and hidden passages. As a woman who has traveled this path, I know firsthand the emotional rollercoaster it brings. Did you know that women with Bipolar disorder may experience more intense mood swings than men? This can lead to unique challenges that often go unrecognized. In this article, I’ll share my personal journey and the lived experiences of many women, shedding light on how we cope with this condition and support each other. Join me as we dive deep into the unique struggles and victories of women facing Bipolar disorder.

The Unique Challenges Women Face

Women with Bipolar disorder face distinct challenges that complicate our experiences. Hormonal fluctuations, particularly during menstrual cycles, pregnancy, or menopause, can exacerbate mood instability. I remember days when I felt like I was on a tightrope, trying to balance my emotions with the expectations placed upon me. Society often holds women to certain standards—being nurturing, resilient, and emotionally stable—adding pressure that can intensify our symptoms.

Navigating relationships can also be tricky. The stigma surrounding mental illness creates barriers in friendships and romantic relationships. I’ve had moments when I felt isolated, unsure of how to express what I was going through. Sharing my experiences with friends has often led to deeper connections, but it hasn’t been without its challenges.

Women as Caregivers and Self-Advocates

One aspect that deserves attention is the role of women as caregivers. Many women with Bipolar disorder are not only managing their own mental health but also taking care of family members or friends. This dual responsibility can make it difficult to prioritize self-care. However, I’ve noticed that women who actively participate in taking care of themselves often become more open to sharing their struggles and advocating for their needs.

Through my journey, I learned that taking risks—whether it’s trying a new therapy or speaking openly about my experiences—has empowered me. For example, joining support groups predominantly composed of women has provided a safe space for me to share my journey. The camaraderie I’ve experienced in these groups has shown me that vulnerability can lead to strength.

Mental health, largely a female-dominated field, has allowed me to feel comfortable discussing my experiences in therapy. It’s like talking to a girlfriend; the conversations feel intimate and relatable. This unique dynamic has helped me navigate the complexities of my mental health while also reinforcing the importance of self-advocacy.

The Impact of Medication on Hormonal Chemistry

Medication is often a cornerstone of managing Bipolar disorder, but it can also change our hormonal chemistry significantly. For me, adjusting to medication was a journey in itself. Initially, I struggled with side effects that felt overwhelming, and I had to work closely with my healthcare provider to find the right balance. I learned that being compliant with my medication regime was crucial, as non-compliance can lead to heightened symptoms and a more chaotic emotional state.

I’ve had moments where I thought, “You can’t pray the cray away.” This realization came after a particularly challenging episode when I was non-compliant. The repercussions were a stark reminder of how critical it is to stay on track with medication. During this time, I also recognized the need for consistent support and guidance—enter the idea of having a mental health mentor. This could be someone on your team who helps navigate the complexities of the mental healthcare system and advocates for you when you are unable to do so.

Vulnerability and Trust in Therapy

Developing trust with your therapist, counselor, or social worker is vital in managing mental health. I found that consistency in my therapeutic relationships helped build that trust over time. It’s all about relationship management skills; the more I opened up, the more I felt understood. This consistency created a nurturing environment where I could explore my vulnerabilities without fear of judgment.

In therapy, I’ve found it beneficial to share both my struggles and triumphs. My experiences have often resonated with my therapist, allowing for deeper conversations about coping mechanisms. I’ve developed grounding techniques that work for me—like aromatherapy, breathing exercises, tapping, or the cold water trick for dissociation. These tools have empowered me to manage my emotions and navigate overwhelming moments more effectively.

The Stigma of Mental Illness

One significant challenge I’ve faced as a woman with Bipolar disorder is the derogatory language used to describe mentally ill women. Terms like "crazy," "mad," or "hysterical" perpetuate harmful stereotypes that affect my experience as an individual. I remember feeling deeply affected by these labels, which created a sense of shame around my condition. However, I decided to take back the language, turning negative descriptors into positive affirmations. Humor has also become an essential coping mechanism for me. Laughter helps defuse tension and allows me to approach my experiences with a lighter heart.

Public speaking and community participation have been instrumental in reclaiming my narrative. By sharing my story, I aim to break down the stigma and foster understanding about Bipolar disorder. Engaging in community discussions has also given me the platform to advocate for change in mental health policies, particularly around the treatment of women.

Addressing Gender-Based Trauma in Healthcare

Gender-based trauma can deeply affect women’s experiences within the healthcare system, particularly in mental health settings. I’ve faced situations in hospitals that triggered past traumas, especially when it comes to restrictive practices. These experiences have fueled my desire to change policies regarding how women are treated during mental health interventions.

It’s vital for healthcare providers to recognize the impact of gender-based trauma and create supportive environments. Advocacy for change in these practices can lead to better experiences for women seeking care. By sharing our stories, we can push for policies that respect the dignity and autonomy of all patients.

The Power of Community Support

Peer support has been invaluable in my journey. Connecting with others who share similar experiences fosters a sense of belonging and understanding. I’ve found a community through various support groups, predominantly led by women. These spaces have allowed us to share stories openly and honestly. There’s something profoundly healing about realizing that someone else has walked a similar path.

Hearing others’ stories inspires me to share my own. In these supportive environments, I’ve learned to embrace vulnerability as a strength. We create a tapestry of hope and resilience, which can guide others facing similar challenges.

Knowledge is Power: The Importance of Research

As women with Bipolar disorder, knowledge is indeed power. I’ve learned that educating myself about my condition has been empowering. Researching my symptoms, treatment options, and coping strategies allowed me to take control of my mental health journey. This knowledge has not only informed my decisions but has also given me the confidence to advocate for myself within the healthcare system.

Participating in recovery college programs has been a transformative experience. These programs provide valuable information about mental health and recovery while fostering a sense of community. Engaging with others in these settings encourages open discussions about our experiences and the tools we can use to thrive.

Celebrating the Wins

While it’s easy to focus on the challenges, it’s crucial to celebrate the wins as well. Each achievement, no matter how small, deserves recognition. I’ve learned the power of positive affirmations. They may sound simple, but telling myself that I am capable has a profound impact on my mindset.

Sharing stories of personal achievements—like completing a project at work, reaching a sobriety milestone, or engaging in community advocacy—helps me acknowledge my progress. In moments of self-doubt, looking back at these victories fuels my motivation to continue moving forward. It’s about recognizing that we can grow, even amidst the highs and lows.

Final Thoughts

Living with Bipolar disorder is a journey filled with ups and downs, and it’s crucial for us to understand and support each other. By sharing our lived experiences, we create a tapestry of hope and resilience that can guide others. Remember, if you or someone you know is struggling, you are not alone. There is strength in sharing our stories. For those looking for more resources, be sure to check out my post, How to Start Managing Bipolar Disorder: A Comprehensive Guide, for tips and strategies. Let's continue to have conversations that take us beyond the stigma and uplift one another.
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