Growing Up With Mental Illness

            Hello all, welcome to “From the Mind of One Tim Cubbin!” My name is Tim Cubbin, and I’ll be your narrator!

            So some of my previous readers know that I have bipolar disorder and am a mental health advocate, topics I discuss very often in this blog. I know it’s a taboo subject, a topic not talked about enough, not mainstream, not understood, and that is why I take it upon myself to fight the stigma. This post is here to discuss my childhood battle with mental illness, up until the point where I became a teenager, and I will likely continue this story in future posts, but for now we’ll talk about my life up until I was diagnosed as bipolar. This is actually very hard for me to write, but I feel SOMEONE has to do this, why shouldn’t it be me? I hope my story will go on to help and inspire youths going through similar difficulties in their lives and make them not ashamed of their diagnoses as honestly there is NOTHING to be ashamed of. So, let’s begin.

            In my first five years of life, I was, let’s say, difficult. I couldn’t sit still for very long, I had nervous ticks such as hair twirling, nose picking, and saliva bubble blowing, and I blurted out things a kid is instilled not to say. I know a lot of kids do similar habits, and that’s what led to my first diagnosis, attention deficit disorder (A.D.D.). My father, apparently didn’t truly believe in mental illness at the time. He just though my actions were things that could be cured with a good ol’ spanking, an hour of silence in the corner, soap in the mouth, denial of privileges, exclusion from meals, and a “go to your room.” (Back then, “go to your room” was a punishment. I didn’t have a television or video game console or computer at the time, so being exiled was difficult, which actually helped develop my love of reading and writing, for lack of anything else to do. I could read third grade level by three years old, not to brag.) I was punished a lot as a child, which my longtime friends know. Day care had several minor complaints about me, which my dad overreacted to with the aforementioned punishments. Finally, when I was five and in kindergarten, my school social worker told my parents to take me to a psychiatrist. My dad, as you can surmise, thought it was a waste of time and money, but my mom acquiesced. After one session, the psychiatrist decided I had A.D.D. and prescribed a bimonthly session and a daily dosage of Ritalin. (This happened all the time for children currently around my age. Any odd behavior meant a snap label of A.D.D. and a bottle of Ritalin. I don’t know how this applies these days, I have no children or any children in my immediate family, but feel free to send me a comment to fill me in, I’d really like to know. No one has ever left me a comment to my blog in my entire career of over a year and I think one is LONG OVERDUE!). Again, my dad thought the medications were a waste of money, he believed they wouldn’t do anything and that it was a quack trying to scam them. His assessment seemed to be right as my “defective” behavior didn’t improve.

My memories of the next few years are a blank due to a head injury fourteen years ago, so I only have a few snippets of my past. I lost my first love Sarah of a brain tumor when I was seven years old. (The general belief of if she were still alive today, we’d be married, successful, and have five amazing kids.) Also, my parents got divorced when I was eight years old. I, of course, at the time thought it was my fault. I believed that if I weren’t so defective, my dad wouldn’t have left and we would have stayed a family. All of my psychiatrists and therapists have told he that the divorce wasn’t because of me, which is what they tell every kid, but it took me a long time to accept it wasn’t due to me. (There is now someone I can attribute it to, but I don’t like to discuss this person as they are a nonentity in my life now and a waste of both my and your time to talk about.) My custody arrangement meant I lived with my mother, but had visitation with my dad every Wednesday, every other weekend, and every other holiday. I had the feelings that many young kids feel: I idealized both my parents and hoped they would get back together. I took me four years to get past that one.

Flash forward several years, as I have very few memories after that until I was in middle school. I was still on meds, there was tension in my family, which blew up when I was thirteen. I was one of the kids who never cleaned his room. One weekend, my dad said if I didn’t clean my room by the next visitation period, he would throw everything on the floor out. Every kid thinks that would be an empty threat… except my dad meant it. As my possessions went in the garbage bag, an argument started, culminating with me saying the words “I never want to see you again!” and him replying “That can be arranged.” Of course, I figured this would be a mad on and he would get over it. I did not see my dad for over a year after that.

Word spread of my father abandoning me, my being on meds, and my odd behavior made school difficult after that. I was heavily bullied, and I acted out a lot. I can’t discuss my life after that due to restrictions of content on this blog site and I’d rather not relive the time too much as it is difficult and painful.

When I was fourteen, my father contacted me online and we reunited, but I got the hard news: he was moving to Texas. His exact words were “There’s nothing keeping me in New York.” This deeply impacted my mental state, and the day before my first day of high school, I had a major breakdown and was sent to a mental hospital for almost a month. That was when the doctors reassessed my condition of A.D.D. being a misdiagnosis and decided I actually have bipolar disorder. My medications were changed completely, and my life massively changed. I was released September 30, 2002, and on October 1, 2002, my new life began.

That’s where we’re going to end. There is a chance we’ll talk more about my teenage years, but just not now. I know I’ve been going on for a while, so if you’re still with me at this point, you are THE BEST! (I say this every time as any of my prior readers will know, but I want you to know that I actually really do mean it.) I hope my story was understandable, that it actually reached you, made you learn about the struggle those with mental illness go through, and maybe even inspired you if you are a youth with mental illness. I totally encourage you to comment or retweet my post or follow me, that would be awesome and I will totally say you are THE BEST! I will follow you if I don’t already follow you! Also, feel free to look at more of my posts on this blog. I talk about other topics of mental illness, but that’s not all. I write essays, short stories, editorials, essays, poetry, book reviews, and more, so please see if anything else hits your fancy. (Does anyone say that anymore, or am I just old?) Anyway, thanks for reading, I’m nowhere near done with this blog, there will be a lot more content coming up, so until next time, Tim Cubbin… out! 

"Normal"

            Howdy, one and all, and welcome to From the Mind of One Tim Cubbin! I am your guide, Tim Cubbin. I figure you were kind of expecting that, though, but, then again, you never know.

            But now, let’s get serious. You saw that the title is “Normal,” and the tags/hashtags attracted your attention, so that’s really great you’re here because this topic is very important to me, and I’m happy you’re taking the time to read this post. So my friends and family, previous readers of this blog, and viewers of my web series “Bipolar Opposites” know my condition: I have bipolar disorder. And I’m not afraid to admit that. It’s part of who I am, it’s what makes me me, and I totally own it. I didn’t choose to have the disorder, it’s not my fault, I didn’t ask for it, it’s just something I was born with. I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve been hospitalized several times over the years, that I’ve been in therapy since I was five years old, and I’m on medications. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.

            And this brings me to my point: “normal.” A word I hate when you talk about another human being. I’ve discussed the topic briefly in prior posts, so you might know that already, but this post is dedicated specifically to the topic and to introduce myself to first-time readers. Anyway, let’s talk about the word normal. Some readers know I like to reference dictionary.com for certain terms, and this is no exception. There are several definitions for the word, but the one I’m taking is actually referring to psychology, which is exactly what I want. Here it is: “approximately average in any psychological trait, as intelligence, personality, or emotional adjustment. free from any mental disorder; sane.” Okay, may I say: I HATE THIS! HOW DARE YOU TAKE THE WORD “NORMAL” AND SAY THIS? I FIND THIS EXTREMELY, AND EVEN BEYOND OFFENSIVE AND INSULTING! SO YOU’RE SAYING I’M BIPOLAR SO I’M NOT “NORMAL?” (Sorry to use flaming, the journalism term for typing in all caps, but I’m in the moment for saying how offended I am.) And I’m sure that EVERY person with mental illness, learning disorders, disabilities, and on the autism spectrum will agree with me that THIS IS OFFENSIVE! So if you hear voices or see things that aren’t there, you are not normal. If you are mentally retarder, you are not normal. If you have borderline personality disorder, you are not normal. If you have bipolar disorder, you are not normal. If you are schizophrenic, you are not normal. If you’ve ever been in a mental hospital, you are not normal. This is THE MOST OFFENSIVE THING I HAVE EVER READ! How can you say WE ARE NOT “NORMAL?” Who decided that? And a psychological definition says this? In a DICTIONARY? WHAT. THE. WHAT? No. Just. NO! I mean. HONESTLY.

            And on top of that, how can you say that ANY human being is “normal?” So there’re specific personality traits that make a person “normal?” EVERY HUMAN BEING IS DIFFERENT! If you don’t fit a paragon of perfection, you’re not “normal?” And you know the phrase, the ONE PHRASE that I hate the most? My dad’s wife said it to me once: “Why can’t you act like a normal human being?” That has to be THE MOST OFFENSIVE THING THAT HAS EVER BEEN SAID TO ME! So what makes her, what gives her the right to say I’m not normal? So I act different than her, I’m not “normal?” Again, I’m bipolar, she’s not, I’m unemployed, she’s a nurse (now retired, but she was a nurse at the time of saying it) I have a tricky memory, she’s got great recall; so she’s normal, I’m not? HONESTLY? I have NEVER been more insulted in my entire life. I was bullied in school because I acted a little “differently” than most of the other students, so I wasn’t “normal?” What is normal? You CANNOT say that ANY ONE person is normal. You just can’t.

            I’d like to return to dictionary.com again. An adjective definition of normal is “conforming to the standard or the common type; usual; not abnormal.” What is “standard?” What is “the common type?” What is “usual?” What is “not abnormal?” How can you define that? What are the exact traits that fit the profile? How can you apply these words to any human, to any human behavior? I can’t.

            Now, I’ve said this in pretty much every single one of my posts that I can’t expect you to agree with me. Some of you have read to this point and think I’m off base, that my points are invalid, that I’m wrong. I respect that. I respect YOU. But there are those of you who think I’ve made good points, feel the same way, and agree with every single word I’ve said. I you do, that makes me very happy. But you’re entitled to your own opinions. This is my opinion. Some of you may have read this and now feel that I MYSELF am not normal. If you do, that’s fine, that’s all you. Feel how you feel. Whatever you want to think, keep on thinking. If you have anything you’d like to say, feel free to comment on whatever platform you’re reading this on. If you’re on Twitter, please follow me, retweet my posts, whatever you feel like doing. If you like this post, feel free to look at more of my posts, I’ve done over sixty, there’s plenty of other things you can enjoy. I do other editorials and essays like this (being an unemployed certified journalist), prose/graphic novel reviews, short stories, and poetry, so whatever floats your boat, feel free to peruse my work. I’ll be back soon, so until then, I say, Tim Cubbin… out! 

Therapy

            Hello, hello, hello! Welcome to From the Mind of One Tim Cubbin! I’m Tim Cubbin! If you’re here, you are THE BEST! My regulars will know I say that very often on this blog, and I honestly mean it! You may have scrolled by this post completely uninterested, said “Meh,” and moved past. But, you! YOU decided to read my post, and that means A LOT to me because the topic is rather taboo, people don’t like to talk about it. But, you! YOU decided to read this post anyway. So for that, THANK YOU, and I hope you are compelled by what I’m presenting to you now!

            So I know that some of you know me as family or friend. Some of you know me from reading prior entries on this blog page. Some of you don’t even know me at all but thought this would be an interesting read as you scrolled past. However you are here, whyever you are here (autocorrect tells me “whyever” is not a real word, but I think it SHOULD be, so I’m using the word “whyever” whyever I want), I’m glad you’re giving me a chance. This blog is my job, but I don’t get paid, but I do this anyway because I care about my content and wish to share my views on all kinds of niche topics with y’all (I’m a New Yorker, yet I say “y’all.” I don’t know why), so by acknowledging me, you’re doing me a great service.

            But I digress. I’m here, typing on my computer keys, to talk about therapy. For the record, I am diagnosed with bipolar disorder, a fact that I purposely share because I’m not ashamed of it. Some people with mental illness are often embarrassed by their “disease.” I’m telling you, if you’re bipolar, or autistic, or have ADHD, or OCD, of mentally retarded, I’m telling you this: THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU! You can’t choose how you’re BORN, but you CAN choose how you LIVE. I spent years embarrassed when I was put on Ritalin for ADD (which was actually a misdiagnosis and caused me a lot of trouble for almost ten years). In school, I had to take medication midday, and that meant I had to go to the school nurse every lunch period. I was ashamed and hoped no one saw me in the nurse’s office to blab to the other students, and if I tried to avoid or forgot about the medication, I was called to the nurse’s office on the loudspeaker, so to me, I was in a lose/lose situation. If I was seen taking medications, the bullies would jump on any chance to make my school days difficult. I was always afraid someone would find out. I also learned how to fake taking the medication by faking taking them in my mouth then stealthily pocketed the pill, and was able to trick the nurse, because that seemed “cool.” If you’re a student in school and reading this, it might be best NOT to try to hang with the “cool kids” as they might not really be “cool” after all. I mean, there are exceptions, but most of the “cool kids” in my schools were jerks. So medications were my dirty little secret. Now, I know if you’re reading this, there may be a chance you feel this way too. If you are on meds, again, THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU! THERE IS NO NEED TO FEEL EMBARRASSED! If these little tablets make your condition better, wouldn’t you rather be taking them? People with diabetes have to test their blood sugar and take insulin. It’s not a reason to be embarrassed, it’s just part of their life. I’m actually on medications for epilepsy and hypertension. I want to avoid having seizures or high blood pressure so I can have a good quality of life. This should not be embarrassing to me (and it’s honestly not). So if Ritalin makes you focus through your ADHD, or lithium can prevent manic bipolar episodes, wouldn’t that actually be a GOOD thing? I would think so. So if kids in your school think it’s “uncool” to be on medications, they’re probably the uncool ones. So if you’re on medications, you don’t have to share this with anyone, but you shouldn’t be afraid of being seen taking meds. It’s part of life, YOUR life, it ALWAYS will be, so you honestly shouldn’t be ashamed.

            So let’s get to my main point; therapy. If you take meds for mental illness, such as for bipolar disorder, you probably see a psychiatrist and/or therapist to evaluate your condition and prescribe your medications. You may be embarrassed by this, sitting in a room talking about your “feelings” for forty-five minutes. You may hate it, even dread it. I will also state that therapy may be more difficult for males because males are raised, particularly by fathers, to not talk about such things. Fathers may say things to their sons like “Man up,” or “Walk it off.” Some parents will not even try to conceive that there is nothing “wrong” with their children (and mental illness does not mean that anything is “wrong” with a child). My dad didn’t. He didn’t believe in mental illness, or medication, or therapy. I was just, his word, “abnormal.” I’m not the perfect mini-Mike, or a doctor, or a lawyer, or famous, or rich son that he wanted, and if you are none of those things, again, THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU! You can’t always be the kid your parents want, and THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT! No one is perfect! And there is NO SUCH THING as “normal.” How can anyone be “normal” since no two people are the same? How is there a paragon of “normal” if we are all different? She gets good grades; does that make her “normal?” He’s a football star; is he “normal?” How is “normal” defined? He’s in ninth grade and he can’t read at a ninth grade level; he must be “abnormal.” She can’t sit still for more than three minutes; that makes her “abnormal.” The word “normal” when applied to human beings, really SHOULDN’T apply. But let’s get back to therapy. Sure you may not like it, it may make you feel that there is something wrong with you, you may feel that you’d rather be anywhere else for those forty-five minutes. Look, I get it, I honestly get it. I used to hate therapy. My doctors were just so boring, acting all high-and-mighty, telling me how things should be. I had therapy once a month, and I did not look forward to that day. But think about it: you watch a television show you like, go to school or the office the next day and talk all about it with your friends and coworkers. So if you have something bothering you, wouldn’t you like to talk about THAT as well? A fellow student calls you a really bad name and the principal doesn’t do anything to punish that kid. If you go to a therapist, you can talk it through. What did this student call you? Why did he call you that? Why did this bother you? How did it make you feel? What did you do after he called you that name? Doesn’t talking about this with someone understanding, nonjudgmental make you feel better? I’ve truly come to appreciate a therapist. If I yell at someone, why did I do it and how did it make me feel? Did it make me feel better? Was there really a reason to have done that? Did it solve anything? What could I have done instead? My therapist really makes me think about it so it doesn’t happen again. I actually have a safety plan. What are my triggers? What can I do before a crisis starts? Who can I talk to? What can I do instead of a crisis? This really helps me. And she helps me set goals. It feels so good to go to my therapist and report my feelings. Did I want to yell? Did I actually not yell? Did I yell? What did I do when I felt like yelling? What did I do? What did/could have done instead? If I’m successful, the reassurance is just so good. If I’m not, it just helps to know what I should do next time a crisis approaches. Now, I can’t expect you to do this, but I go to therapy weekly. It’s a great feeling to be able to go to her and tell her I made it through a week without crisis, sometimes I don’t feel good about how my week went, but talking about it just helps me. I have a set day and time every week, and my progress in treatment is important to me. I also see my psychiatrist every four weeks to discuss how the medications are working for me, make adjustments, talk about important life events. I don’t dread it like I used to. I find it to be that therapy is not bad, and it does so much for me. So honestly, if you are in therapy, if you are on medications, if you are diagnosed with mental illness, you have NOTHING to be ashamed of. If you feel like you need help, than you should probably get it. There’s NOTHING wrong with that, with asking for help.

            If you’re here, you are THE BEST! I hope my advice can be of help to you. You totally don’t have to agree with me. If you don’t think any of what I said applies to you, I actually invite you to ignore what I said and go on and read the end of this essay. I can’t tell YOU how YOU should feel or think, this is how I feel and how it applies to ME! I hope my essay was compelling, clear, and concise. I write plenty of other blog content such as more editorials, short stories, poetry, and book reviews, so if you liked this post, feel free to continue to peruse the blog, get a feel of how my thoughts work, and now I say to you, as always, Tim Cubbin… out!