as seen in the snapper

this semester i finally gave in and became an editor for the snapper - my college's student newspaper. though very time consuming, i love it - especially the freedom to write about almost anything that i want.

as far as i can tell, very few people read the snapper, which is sad. this became even clearer to me when the one and only writer for my section emailed me and said, "so where can i get a copy of the snapper?" they are only in places where you can see them - huge stacks inside every building on campus - but i guess my peers don't look up from their phones long enough to notice those stacks, let alone to actually read a newspaper.

you'll have to excuse me for being such a young senior citizen. i still love print publications. there's just something about spreading out the sunday newspaper and reading each section, or sitting in a bookstore flipping through magazines.

i love the internet too of course, and while i appreciate texting, i hate walking around campus seeing everyone glued to their phones. people almost run into me nearly every day on the sidewalk, except i refuse to accommodate their addiction (haha call me what you want) and say "hey!" and they blush or fumble for words and trip. real human interaction, sans computer screen and sans alcohol, is strange i suppose? but i still enjoy it. i hate being in class and seeing everyone playing on their iphones. how disrespectful - why bother even going to class?

enough of my ranting though, i apologize. what i actually wanted to share was one of my articles from this week's snapper. which won't be out till thursday so you're getting an oh-so-privileged sneak peek, ha.

this week's features spread theme was stigma, so i wrote about my dad. i'm feeling pretty brave for printing such a personal article, but my hope is to break off stigma and offer encouragement to even just one person.

*****

"Bipolar Disorder Through a Daughter's Eyes."
By Chelsea Shank
One of the hardest parts of growing up with a dad who is bipolar is something that most people would probably never guess.

Bipolar disorder comes in all different forms and can be difficult to diagnose. Classic bipolar consists of alternating episodes of severe depression and full-blown mania. Manic episodes include psychotic and grandiose thinking with elated moods, superhuman energy and reckless judgment.

My dad ricocheted from extreme lows to extreme highs. Sometimes there were in-betweens, but those are harder for me to remember. There were waves of mania that kept him up all through the night wandering around town, socializing like it was a job and spending money as if he had a job that afforded him to buy convertibles and purebred puppies every month. (Credit card companies must love people with mental illnesses.) Then there were periods of isolation as debilitating depression set in.

As I grew up learning about this mental illness, I learned even more about the stigma attached to it. The silence surrounding my dad’s illness created a stigma in my mind, but maybe that’s why every stigma exists. Silence perpetuates shame, and only when we finally speak out do we find freedom. We finally realize that we’re not alone and there is always hope.

In every culture there is some level of stigma attached to mental illnesses and seeking the necessary help. Even in modern American culture where mental illnesses are so prevalent, there is still an inclination to hide. Mental disorders are often seen as a sign of weakness, but a person with a mental illness is not weak. When they seek treatment they display more courage than most of us ever will.

So what has been the hardest part of life with my dad?

Was it hiding under the covers while my dad screamed in fits of manic rage in the hallway? Visiting him in one psychiatric ward after another? Watching my dad make a fool of himself during manic episodes or watching him crumble in dark episodes of depression?

Tears have been shed over all of these things, but it’s the shame of mental illness that really kills me. For me it culminated in one dreaded question. “So what do your parents do Chelsea?” I’d talk about my mom, then stop and hope my silence would cut off further inquiry - but I rarely got that lucky. Although my dad once held a steady job as a construction worker, for whatever reason he quit working when I was eight and never got another.

I was so ashamed of telling anyone that my dad didn’t work. He said to tell people he was self-employed, and I guess technically he was for several years as he farmed and did odd jobs. This didn’t satisfy me, especially not once those stints tapered off. All I wanted was a normal dad who worked at a normal job.

A lot of times I’d answer that he was a construction worker. A half-truth. But a half-truth is a half-lie and I don’t consider that honest. Sometimes the half-lies turned into full-blown lies when people would ask even more questions about his career. My desire for honesty collided with all of my pride and shame to create a dilemma that still throws me.

How do you sum up 23 years of living with a dad and his mental illness that has caused you pain unlike anything else? How do you explain a mental illness to people who have no idea? How can you compartmentalize one of your most intimate struggles into a pat answer that fits into small talk with practical strangers?

One thing I do know, is that I love and adore my dad. Just like he experiences highs and lows, my feelings for him are marked by extremes. Extreme hurt, yes, but the hurt is overshadowed by an extreme love for my father. I love my dad and all of the memories we’ve made. I love dreaming of making more. Of the day he’ll walk me down the aisle at my wedding, and the day he’ll hold my kiddos and be their hilarious grandpa, but most of all I dream of the day that he will be healed of bipolar disorder and live free from the grip of a mental illness.