Cornflake Girl

The word that changed my life is not one that others would expect, were they in my shoes. It wasn't "illness" or "disorder", not even "Bi-Polar." To me, those were all just meaningless, vague words that could indicate a hundred things. My father was diagnosed with Bi-Polar disorder, been in a hospital, finger painted under watch of therapists and such. So I certainly understood these words. Following them all, however, she had said, "Lithium."

My responses to must unpleasant things are generally jokes or misplaced laughter, a sassy remark. So my response had been, "Lithium is for batteries." This I knew was not entirely true, which of course was the pike peircing my side. Lithium has one other use; one I dare not consider. They gave Lithium to 'crazy' people. Not people like my father that had a 'disorder' and an 'illness.' Lithium wasn't medicine....it was a marker for the crazy. That was my belief and I refused to take it.

Although held over nine years ago, that conversation still resonates so deeply inside me that I blush at my own ignorance. I feel ashamed to hear my own voice uttering such stigmas. My own father has this same disorder, how can I be so cruel? Because until I heard the word Lithium it wasn't me. It wasn't real...and I fell prey to a fall sense of compassion. I believed myself to be understanding and accepting of mental illness. I believed myself a better person than I was. Now, nearly a decade later, I understand that even THAT is a fallacy.

I've found that perception is more than some philosophical abstract put forth in poetry and dry intellectual essays. When you begin to put yourself in someone else's place and see something from the other side, you can still understand only so much. Unless you experience a thing you will never do more than imagine that you understand it. Even then, your experience is not theirs. My disorder is not my father's. His treatment is not mine. The way other people see him, is not how they see me....or how I see me.

My father is a very scientifically minded man. An engineer, self-taught with no college, but recognition in his field globally and his name on nine patents. Am I bragging, sure...a little. As a kid I always wanted to be like my father. He's brilliant, so hard working and people respect him. Even when his disorder was out of control and he was drinking, there was this sad admiration that followed him. "He's so brilliant, its a shame about his issues..." There was no blame placed on him because his genius somehow forgave him everything.

I am five years younger than my father was when I was born, and I am like him in so many ways. I have his shortness and stockiness. I have his face and sense of humor. I have his fearlessness of all the wrong things like death and poverty, but a crippling phobia of foolish things like failure, and public opinion. I'm not unintelligent, but I don't excell where he does. I could never run a company, or put someone in their place without making a fool of myself. Most of all, my talents are in abstract things like art and literature-things less quantifiable than science. Oh, and I have his disorder, but not the admiration.

There is a point when speaking to someone that a gloss comes over their eyes and they stop making eye contact. I've gotten better at seeing it coming, but it still happens; that point when they think "what a flake." Just the thought of it fills their eyes so loudly that I've trained myself to smile, a small, sad, but understanding smile. At least its flake, not crazy. The ones that think crazy never come back. They'll circle a party with every effort to stay clear of you. Mostly there is just that nonverbal understanding that occurs after I slip and tell some anecdote from my childhood, or mention that I'm "not really sure what I'm doing with my life right now," or I admit my college degree was in filmmaking. Flake. Its an unspoken understanding.

My closest friends have moved past that stage. To them, I'm not "The Cornflake Girl", I'm just that girl that needs to be watched a little more closely and handled with care; like an adult child. It isn't something that angers me. I understand it. It was how I lived with my father for years; learning his habits, his looks, his tone of voice and knowing that "I want a cup of coffee" meant more than just those words imply. My father was the way he was all my life. He still is this way. But his illness is not my illness.

Those I count among my friends that don't know about my disorder, or aren't close enough to really and truly understand it have their moments. Mostly I see that glazed look and we part ways with an understanding that I had a "flake moment." They love me enough to think it only momentary. Some have been witness to something farmore confusing and out of love they pretend it never happened and they never ask. But this isn't understanding. I know that if something truly bad were to happen, they'd start circling the party and I'd not see them again.

The problem is that we as a society rely on the television to give us a handful of symptoms and its marketed as "The X Disease." Soon a dozen people are suffering from "The X Disease" and we have this false sense of compassion for them. After a while, it is so common place that its dismissed with a vague wash of sympathy because we can say "Oh my cousin Billy has that." So naturally, we understand. Not just mental disorders, so many things: Diabetes, Autism, Cancer. How many of these things, however, do we truly understand? How many are we truly compassionate to? And how many of those do we accept merely because we can SEE them..?

I've met a lot of people who have been diagnosed with Bi-Polar. Now, let me explain how astounding I find this given that less than 2% of the adult population of the WORLD has it...and it is incredibly hard to diagnose because long term behavior over years and years of your life is usually necessary as is family history. These are needed to distinguish the disorder from Borderline Personality, Uni-polar disorder, Schizophrenia and Clinical Depression. There are such minute differences, and when you have cases such as mine, which also incorporate Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, itis all that much harder. It doesn't usually manifest until the late teens and if the person survives that extremely turmoiled time of their life to make it into adult hood, there is more than a 75% chance they won't die of old age. I had one psychiatrist, who teaches at four universities no less, tell me that people with Bi-Polar are the doomed souls of Grecian Gods. They'll be brilliant beyond all things, but they are doomed to die unpleasantly. He didn't know I have it. I respected him above all my other professors. That was a rough day.

Back to these dozens of bi-polarites....when asked what it is their responses are so cartoonish. "I feel happy then feel sad." "Do you hear voices?" "no." "Have you hallucinated anything?" "no." "tried to hurt yourself?" "yeah. all the time." "Tried to kill yourself?" "well I thought about it...." "You take a mood stabilizer?" "I'm an anti-depressants." "How long have you shown signs?" "A year, I guess..." "I see." "Why...do you?" "Yeah." And then, in their eyes the unspoken:

-crazy-

Now I do not deny them their help. I do not rebuke their pain or frustrations. Their illness is not my illness. For that they are lucky. But among this heard of afflicted, how is there no understanding? No recognition or mutual perception? When did 'Flake' become preferable to 'Crazy'?

The day that she said "Lithium."