Except for the fact that I didn’t own the Bates Motel, for a long time I felt just like Anthony Perkins, hearing crazy voices from the room upstairs. For many years, the fact that I had bipolar disorder filled me with a corrosive and crushing shame. I lived with an endless narrative loop in my head that was harsh, cruel and replete with self-reproach. It was the reason that I avoided getting treatment for far too long.

This all changed when a warm and wise woman who suffered from bipolar disorder came to see me for a consultation a few years back. She relayed her story to me and it was remarkably similar to mine. Years of self-loathing and fleeing from accepting her diagnosis. As I listened, I felt that it was a privilege to be invited into her inner world and empathized with her struggles. Rather than seeing her as damaged, I saw her merely as being scared. Rather than seeing her as pathological, I understood her vulnerability. It was her humanness that resonated with me. And then, what I had previously been blind to came into clear focus.

For years, fueled by shame, I had been running away from myself, trying to stay one step ahead of my “badness”. But what this admirable patient awakened in me was something I had known all along. We humans can have kindness and compassion for others that we don’t often enough bestow upon ourselves. I thought that surely I could find a way to rewire the way I spoke to myself, replacing the voices of self-condemnation with ones imbued with the compassion and humanism I felt toward her. This was obvious, but back then it felt revelatory. Sounds trite but it was empowering to realize that I held my identity in my own hands. This finally allowed me to usher in an affirming sense of self. I had found my way out of the darkness that had plagued me and was able to claim an inner story line that was healthy, undeniable and freeing. This has required me to continue to make active and conscious choices to picture myself through a lens colored with decency and fairness. My road toward health has not been a spectator sport.

During challenging times, I sometimes still hear the self-imposed voices originating from the top floor of the Bates Motel. But whenever that happens, I reflect back on that brave patient of mine and remember the kind narrative she elicited in me. It works much better than living in a world where Norman is messing with my mind.

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