Labels

I’ve been associated with different labels since I was fourteen. First, I dealt with depression after I experienced a major trauma. I stopped talking for months, even though I was screaming inside. My grades fell sharply, and my parents noticed. My dad tried to help me and asked a simple question, but I couldn’t respond, so he thought I was being stubborn. Finally, I told my mom what happened after she understood I wasn’t being defiant.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression, given an antidepressant, and sent to a psychologist. The problem with giving a person with bipolar disorder an antidepressant without a mood stabilizer is that it leads them right into a manic episode. That’s exactly what happened to me. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was just seventeen years old.

It was a challenging time in my life. As a senior in high school, college was approaching, but I struggled to manage my disorder, and medication changes were tough. This is likely why I spent four years in community college without earning my Associate’s Degree. However, I persevered, transferred, and graduated Cum Laude from my college, and eventually got into a really good graduate school. In total, it took me eight years to earn my Master’s degree.

My life was consumed with psychological and psychiatric appointments, and my diagnosis quickly became my identity. I think at that time I probably shared my diagnosis before my name. The problem with that is that I was never meant to be bipolar. I was meant to be Abbey. I moved around a lot, so the labels kept coming as I switched providers. I think deep down, using my disorder was a coping mechanism to keep people away from me or at least to test their loyalty. There’s such a stigma that comes with this disorder.

After graduate school, I think my identity became “social worker.” I moved from Illinois to Ohio, then to Montana, and then back to Ohio. Then I got really sick again. I had to move back to Illinois, where my dad hired me to work at his insurance firm. Everything that I worked for had vanished. I spent eight years working for my dad before I came up with the courage to go back to social work.

During that time, I met my ex-husband and eventually my identity switched again. I am learning that my identity doesn’t have to be just one thing. A former friend of mine tried to tell me this, but I was unwilling to listen at the time.

He once sent me an email that stated, “Like I’ve been telling you, you’re better than you think you are and you don’t have to prove that to anybody but yourself. Also, your identity should never be the entire puzzle. Puzzles come in hundreds, or thousands, of little pieces. Don’t be Abbey: the Wife, or Abbey: the Mental Health Advocate, or Abbey: the Teacher. Just be Abbey, and all of those things will form together to make up the puzzle. An observation: you kind of box yourself in by doing that. You don’t come in one color at a time. Be the entire box of crayons.”

Admittedly, I don’t fully understand the message, but what I think he was trying to say is: don’t let just one thing define you. I’m still working on this. When I went to church, I was supposed to identify myself as “a child of God.” I’ve already admitted to you that I was once a social chameleon. I conformed to be whatever whoever I was spending time with liked. I don’t like not being liked, but what I dislike more is being told who I need to be. I gravitate toward authentic people. I know I have it in me to be authentic, if I could only just let go of all these labels.

For me, I think labels are safe. They give parameters on how to act and behave, providing a structure that can feel comforting in a chaotic world. However, maybe life is not meant to be safe. Maybe it’s meant to be messy, fun, and unpredictable, filled with twists and turns that challenge our assumptions and push us outside of our comfort zones.

I often feel like I am behind in life, as though I am racing against an invisible clock that only I can see. I’ve held on to these labels for so long, allowing them to define me and my choices. I know I can’t shed them all at once, as each label is intertwined with memories and experiences that have shaped who I am.

Still, at least I’ve identified what I need to work on, slowly unraveling these identities and embracing the uncertainty that comes with change. This journey towards self-discovery is daunting, but I feel a flicker of hope that perhaps the messiness of life can lead to something beautiful and transformative.