Accepting that you have a mental disorder is easier when your diagnosis explains a lifetime of feelings and behavior. While some people may be afraid of being labeled, many of us are relieved that what we have has a name — and that we’re not the only person on Earth dealing with it.
When I was diagnosed with Bipolar 2, ADHD, and CPTSD, the confusion about how my life played out was lifted. My emotional outbursts, deep depression and hypomanic episodes finally made sense. This meant I wasn’t hopeless.
Besides enlightening me about my own condition, my diagnosis motivated me to help other people by talking freely about my challenges with mental health. I believed I must have been given these conditions so that I could do some good. I wanted to use any platform I could to talk about mental health.
Mental illness makes some people very uncomfortable. The thought of losing their own faculties fills them with dread. Images of insane asylums and padded rooms may come to mind.
No one aspires to be the “crazy” relative. It’s a sobering moment when you realize that you are.
The people around me during the time of my diagnosis advised me not to talk about my struggles. I owned a martial arts academy, and I saw an opportunity to use my position to bring awareness to mental health issues, and support students that may have been suffering. I started to speak out in class and on social media, and immediately had people reach out who were dealing with their own issues. I felt reassured that I was doing the right thing.
But the backlash continued, and eventually led to some people thinking I was going through hypomania when I was feeling enthusiastic about sharing my story. Despite my doctors’ assurances that I wasn’t symptomatic, the fact that I was no longer depressed felt strange to the people closest to me.
Until I started teaching martial arts, my life was only about my own advancement. Sure, I wanted to be a good person and not do evil, but I wasn’t trying to impact the world in a positive way. Once I had kids and adults training under me who saw me as something of a role model and mentor, I realized I could have an effect on more people than just myself.
Still, my work with students left me feeling as if there was another layer for me to uncover. Shifting focus to the role that the mind plays in training, and even in one’s motivation to train, revitalized my teaching. I felt as though I was able to give students so much more of my true self, and hoped my own vulnerability would inspire them to be more open.
That wasn’t the case with everyone. The aforementioned aversion a lot of people have to discussing mental illness was compounded by their image of me. I was the invincible Sensei who gave them advice about their problems. They didn’t want to see me as fragile or weak. They didn’t want to see themselves that way.
At the time, I was upset by the reaction. I didn’t get it. I was trying to do something good. It felt like a calling, but it seemed everyone I knew was responding negatively. If what I was trying to do was right, wouldn’t everyone be on my side?
Fear of one’s own mortality is only a short step away from the fear of insanity. What’s left once your mind is gone?
As time went on, I began to understand how my students had been caught by surprise by my sudden mission, and how they were scared by it. Even though it marked the end of a two year depression for me, seeing me suddenly filled with purpose again made them afraid that I was changing too fast. Change might be just behind insanity and mortality on the list of what people fear — followed closely by public speaking.
When my new mission no longer aligned with the business I owned, I moved on. The freedom to talk about mental health is too important for me to allow myself to be silenced because of the stigma. I’ve only regretted my decision a few times. Mostly when I’ve missed my students.
The same thing happens with my writing that happened with martial arts. Some people have suggested I not write about mental health as much. They’ve been concerned with how potential clients would view me if they knew my mental health history.
I argue that my neurodiversity has made me a far better martial artist, coach, and writer. I’ve had to practice mindfulness as part of my protocol, and vigilance and awareness are keys to preemptive self-defense.
I now teach workshops which I combine awareness and mindfulness with self-defense techniques to create an overall sense of well being. I emphasize the role of trauma in perception and the importance of empathy in de escalation.
That’s the type of teaching I envisioned when I first declared that I wanted to be a mental health advocate. I’m not just working to make better fighters, but more well rounded and well adjusted people — not just through the rigors of the physical practice, but through the exploration of one’s inner world.
If I hadn’t given up what I once had, I wouldn’t now have the freedom to do what I really want to do. Yes, I’ve sacrificed a lot stability, but I’ve gained the ability to fully express myself, while doing my part to help other people. Stifling the real me would have only led to bitterness — but it really wasn’t an option. I got the call, and I had to answer.
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My new book, Brokedown Sensei: How I Fought Trauma and Bipolar Disorder From The Outside In, is now available on Amazon.
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