i'm not ashamed, but maybe you should be.

There are some things I just can't stand.

I can't stand mayonnaise. It's disgusting. I am definitely judging you if you eat it in my presence. And if you let it touch my food, we can't be friends anymore.

I can't stand smacking. PEOPLE. Chew. With. Your. Mouth. Closed. (Dear Husband and Daughter, I know you find it hilarious to smack when I'm around, and all I can say is that you are risking your personal safety and the safety of those around you by doing so. Scary Mommy will show up, and I can't make any guarantees as to what she will or won't do.)

I can't stand wire hangers. Joan absolutely got this one right (except for the whole child abuse thing). NO. WIRE. HANGERS.

I can't stand the feeling of pantyhose. My skin literally starts to crawl. Team leggings forever.

I can't stand stepping in something wet when I'm wearing socks. BLIND RAGE AND KILL ALL THE THINGS.

I can't stand lip gloss. Especially the sparkly, super-sticky kind sold in the make-up kits that grandparents/aunts/uncles/friends without kids just love to buy. (We get it, Grands. It's your revenge. But know that I am absolutely throwing it all away the minute she isn't looking and then denying the deed until the day I die.) I know my fellow Girl Mamas will understand this one.

I can't stand scuffing the toes or heels of a pair of shoes. It makes me insane. (No comments needed from the peanut gallery on this one.) OCD much? My first instinct is to toss anything with even the teeniest imperfection and go buy a new one, but that's not really a reasonable course of action. (Thank goodness that's not what my people decided to do with ME when they discovered my imperfections. I'd have been at the bottom of a landfill years ago.) So instead, I carry black and brown sharpies in my purse just for touch-ups. (I also do the same for pedicures. Don't y'all?)

I can't stand people who are perpetually peppy and go all Pollyanna on me all the time. (You've heard me rant about this before, and if you stick around, you'll likely hear me rant about it again at some point.) I can rationally understand that things could always be worse, and I can rationally understand that many, many people are struggling with demons much more complicated than my own, but when you are telling me to 'be thankful' that I am 'just' bipolar or 'just' depressed in the hopes that I'll 'cheer up' or 'get over' whatever is weighing on me at the moment? Yeah I pretty much take that as you telling me that my struggle isn't a valid one. I take that as you telling me that what's wrong with me isn't significant.

As much as it pains me to say, I am aware, in fact, that the universe does not actually revolve around me. But consistently suggesting that I 'look on the bright side' (or whatever inane metaphor you're choosing to employ at that moment) will only isolate me. It will only make me feel unimportant and marginalized, and no matter how good your intentions may have been, it will only make me worse.

Let me stop now to say that my intent is not to throw barbs at those who love me enough or are concerned enough to speak up and try to pull me out of my black hole. Such is not the case. I'm just being honest. And that's allowed.

I learned in treatment that it's okay to tell people what helps and what hurts, and that I don't have to be ashamed of it. I also like to say things like "I learned in treatment..." because I think it sounds serious, and bipolar depression is serious.

So while The List of Things That Make Jill Stabby could go on (and on and on and on and on and on) and on, it's this last one that's really ugly:

I can't stand the stigma and the truly unnecessary shame that too often accompany mental illness.

For a while I participated in both. I was angry and embarrassed and would have rather died (And I almost did.) than for anyone to know that I was diagnosed with a mental illness. I wanted to cry (And I did.) every time I picked up my meds when the pharmacist would read the labels to verify I was getting the right ones. I lied about why I was going to the doctor. I canceled therapy appointments and drove around town instead so no one would see my (monogrammed, DUH) car parked in a therapist's parking lot.

I allowed myself to believe that I was worthless. I allowed myself to believe that mine was a made-up illness that a 'normal' person could just 'snap out of' and 'deal with.' I allowed myself to believe that the best way to handle my diagnosis was to hide it. I allowed myself to believe that I should be humiliated by and ashamed of my illness.

I allowed myself to be an idiot.

I don't allow myself to be those things anymore.

That was Step One. Learning to be okay with not being okay took a long time. There are still days that I'm not so good at it, but for the most part I can manage.

I wouldn't be embarrassed to take the necessary drugs to treat a diagnosed condition in my heart or my kidneys or my arm, and I am no longer embarrassed to take the necessary drugs to treat a diagnosed condition in my brain.

That thought and $5 will get me a Pumpkin Spice Latte (except I don't like PSL even a little bit).

It's widely known that I am an avid over-sharer. And there is very little material that is off-limits, including mental illness. It doesn't bother me to talk about my issues or what kind of hell I lived through for so long.

I want people to know that if I can survive those days, so can you. I want people to know that there is no such thing as a lost cause. I want people to know even the darkest, most desperate depression can be manageable. I want people to know how proud I am of myself for first admitting that I just wanted to give up and die and then for not just giving up and dying. Whether or not you realize it, that was hard, y'all. It's still hard, and it's still something I think about every day.

The unfortunate thing is that mental illness isn't a very socially acceptable topic of conversation. It blows my mind (and turns my stomach) that some people don't mind talking about whatever growth/boil/cyst Aunt Martha had to have removed/lanced/drained but then get uncomfortable talking about mental health.

It's dumb. I'm not ashamed to talk, so why should anyone else be ashamed to listen?

I'm fortunate that my people don't feel this way; that or they're just really good fakers.

The shame associated with mental health issues will only last as long as the stigma that accompanies them. Don't be dumb, y'all. Sometimes all you have to do is listen, and it could save someone's life. You never know - you may even find yourself part of a conversation that could change your life too. Just keep an open mind. Realize the guts it takes to start one of those conversations and respect the person sharing it with you. If that's not something you can do, then you are the one who should be ashamed.

xo.