This article was originally published in BP Magazine.
I used to think that being alone was a strength. I grew up with the very 1980s idea that “we have to learn to be alone in order to really be with another person.” I now believe that for people with bipolar depression, the opposite is true—we need human contact to get us out of a down mood swing.
Depression makes me isolate. It makes me see the phone as an instrument of torture. I turn to social media instead of reaching out to live human beings. Depression tells me that being alone is all I deserve and that life is a lonely path I travel without support or love. Wow, I’m stable as I write this and it’s obvious to me that it makes no sense. But when I’m depressed? Totally believe it. Here’s a recent example in my life:
I’m depressed. I need contact, but I can’t reach out. I’m lying in my bed watching another British mystery while there are three messages from friends on my phone. I have the thought, “No one cares about me, which is why no one is calling me. I’m destined to be alone, lying on a bed in a dark room instead of getting out in the world. This is my life and it’s horrible.”
What is wrong with this picture? So much! It’s not rational. At the exact moment that my brain is telling me I have no friends and will be alone forever, I have multiple messages from people who care about me and are waiting for me to respond. Surprise: depression isn’t rational.
This isn’t loneliness! It’s illness. This is what I call “depression isolation.”
My depressed brain isn’t a good reporter. It lies and tells me information that is in direct contrast to what is happening in the real world. The worst part is, when I’m depressed I listen to my ill brain instead of listening to the messages from my good friends.
When I’m stable, life moves forward with ease. I answer my phone. I make plans. I don’t cry and worry and ruminate over my past. Stability is my goal in life.
Here are two things I’ve taught myself to do when I realize I’m sitting alone in my room instead of interacting with life. It’s never easy, and on some days I’m lucky if I can do one, but I will always try until I’m better.
- I turn off social media and force myself to be with human beings. I regularly have to remind myself that social media is a tool that works when I’m well, but when I’m depressed it is a horrible isolator that makes me feel much worse.
- I focus on outcome instead of on my current feelings. I make myself do the opposite of what I feel like doing—even if it often feels worse than a root canal in the moment. But I do this in order to have a better future. I make rules like, “Julie, you will answer your phone no matter how you feel in the moment. You will say yes to invitations. You will reach out to others!” Being my own drill sergeant is what works when my brain is telling me incorrect information.
If you’re depressed right now, pat yourself on the back for reading this! You have already started the process of getting out of your depression by looking for help. If you love someone with bipolar who is isolating, create a plan on your own and then show it to them when they are well. Go over and see them—in person, face to face. Send them a hand-written card—through the mail, not online. Slip a note under their door. Do something real to show them you’re right here whenever they come out of the fog of isolation. And most importantly, whether for yourself or for someone you love, start now and put a plan in place to prevent the mood swing from getting so far the next time.
The ’80s were an interesting time in many ways, and I did learn to be a strong woman. But not every lesson I learned back then was right. There’s a difference between learning to be alone, and feeling isolated and unlovable. When I’m depressed, the answer to isolation is people. Who’s with me?
