Onika L. Dainty

Understanding Bipolar Disorder in Women

Bipolar disorder manifests differently in women due to hormonal differences and societal pressures. I’ve experienced firsthand how societal expectations can intensify the symptoms of Bipolar disorder. The pressure to conform can lead to additional stress and exacerbate our conditions. Recognizing these factors is essential for understanding the unique challenges we face.

The Link Between Substance Use Disorder and Bipolar Disorder

Living with Bipolar disorder, I found myself grappling with the dual challenge of substance use. Co-occurring disorders, where mental illness and substance use exist simultaneously, can complicate treatment. Many women, including myself, may turn to substances like alcohol or cannabis as a way to self-medicate. This self-medication often masks underlying symptoms and can lead to a cycle that is hard to break.  

Co-occurring Disorder

Having a dual diagnosis of mental illness and substance use can be overwhelming. My experience with substance use started as self-medication during a deep depression, where cannabis became my escape. Initially, it felt like a solution, providing temporary relief from racing thoughts and anxiety. However, this self-medication quickly turned into a struggle with substance use disorder, which complicated my journey to proper diagnosis and treatment.

Risk Factors for Substance Use Disorder in Women with Bipolar Disorder

Understanding the risk factors that contribute to this intersection is crucial. Biological factors, such as genetics, play a significant role. I realized that my family history revealed a complex dynamic between mental illness and substance use. Psychological trauma from my childhood further contributed to my Bipolar disorder and substance use. These experiences created a perfect storm that led me to seek relief through substances.

Social factors, including stigma and relationship dynamics, also play a part. Women often face societal pressures that can make it difficult to seek help, as we may feel judged or misunderstood. The dialogue surrounding substance use is changing, but the stigma remains a significant barrier.

Treatment Options for Women with Co-Occurring Disorders

Integrated treatment approaches, which combine therapy and medication, are essential for addressing both Bipolar disorder and substance use. It’s crucial to have gender-sensitive treatment modalities that understand our unique needs. Community resources, such as support groups, can provide invaluable assistance. My journey through Pinewood Addictions Services was transformative, as it connected me with other women who faced similar struggles. The shared experience fostered a sense of belonging and accountability.

Challenges in Diagnosis and Treatment

The stigma surrounding mental illness and substance use can complicate our journey to recovery. Comprehensive screening and assessment are essential to accurately diagnose co-occurring disorders. Unfortunately, barriers to accessing effective treatment still exist. Advocacy for better resources and support systems is vital to ensure we receive the care we deserve.

Support Strategies for Recovery

A huge part of my journey to better mental health has been fostering a strong support network. Encouraging open communication with friends and family has been instrumental in my recovery. Sharing my triumphs and struggles with my support team gives me the courage to keep moving forward.

Additionally, I have learned to prioritize self-care practices and coping strategies. When I feel myself slipping into old habits, I rely on the self-care tools I’ve developed over the years to help me regain balance.

Final Thoughts

Navigating the intersection of mental illness and substance use disorder is a challenging journey, especially for women experiencing Bipolar disorder. Understanding this complex relationship is crucial for effective treatment and support. Through psychoeducation around the relationship between substance use and mental illness from my healthcare team I finally understood the detrimental effect substances were having on my mental health outcomes. I was able to work with my team on rehabilitation, treatment options and recovery from substances. Today, I’m proudly sober and I’m  also aware of the dangers of substance use to my Bipolar I disorder.

By promoting awareness, fostering community resources, and advocating for tailored treatment approaches, we can help empower women on their path to recovery. If you or someone you know is struggling, reaching out for professional help is a vital step toward healing. Remember, everyday is a new opportunity to do something you’ve never done before–let’s start the journey together.

I was emotionally volatile, often having mood swings that went from euphoric and disruptive Mania to lows that had me locked in my room for weeks or months at a time non-communicative with my family including my little sister.

I remember there were several episodes where in my delusional state I believed my little sister was my daughter and when I would approach her with wild love in my eyes she would run into the closest corner of the room and scream for me to leave her alone. Looking back on these moments I realize that my sister was exhausted and scared from the chaos my unchecked illness created in our home. Living in my own reality then I was completely unaware how unsafe I made hers. I have a lot of regrets along the way to wellness but my greatest is the damage my mental illness did to the relationship with my little sister. 

Final Thoughts

My sister and I are still not as close as I’d like us to be. We are on different paths in life and I’m not sure when and if those paths will cross again on my journey to wellness. We share a connection with her parents and I am blessed to have a good relationship with her two daughters. My sister once said to me if we weren’t related we would not be friends and I think she’s probably right. It's more than just years that separates us, it's also life experiences and how we have chosen to handle the challenges they present. I love my sister dearly and I hope one day we can find our way back to each other but for now we live by the invisible boundaries that we have both had to set in order to exist in the spaces we share.

My father was always strict when it came to school. I remember when I was 7-years-old my teacher contacted my dad and told him that his daughter couldn’t read well and I was being transferred to the English as a Second Language program. My father didn’t get mad but he didn’t ask me any questions about what my teacher had said. Rather, he instructed me to read all the books I currently owned until he was satisfied that the teacher was wrong. In reality, I was being bullied at school. I became extremely anxious when reading-out-loud in class. But what I thought was a punishment was actually my father teaching me a valuable life lesson: never let anyone tell you you can’t do something. Because of that pivotal and challenging moment in our relationship I became a voracious reader and ultimately a successful writer. 

This is just one of many examples in my father-daughter relationship where the blessing in the lessons he tried to teach me was lost. When I was diagnosed with Bipolar I disorder the relationship really suffered. I felt isolation and fear that I had lost my father forever but the fear wasn’t just mine it was his too. I was no longer the daughter he knew and navigating this new element of my personality was extremely difficult for a man who took pride in my usual productivity and excellence. No longer was I thriving like he taught me to. I was barely surviving, flailing and vulnerable in a world he taught me would eat me alive if I didn't toughen up. I know my return to post-secondary education gave him hope but Mania and substance use derailed my course for years to come. I always believed it was disappointment my father felt but I think it was actually fear and hopelessness for his eldest daughter who couldn’t find the strength to plant her feet on solid ground.   

After much self-reflection I realize as an adult my father experienced a lot of emotional turmoil with the Bipolar I disorder diagnosis that I was too in my illness to recognize. Early on in my journey I self-stigmatized blaming my father and then the world for not understanding or accepting me. I blamed my illness for my father not loving me, I played the victim of a circumstance I could not change but could learn to manage and I understand now that taking control of my illness is all my father wanted for me. 

Before this enlightenment came there was a lot of resentment and emotional volatility aimed directly at my father and I would watch every misunderstanding turn to a rift in the relationship between him and I. There is a perceived expectation between fathers and daughters that “daddy will always be there to catch you when you fall,” and if he’s not there he’s a bad father. But I challenge this notion. With Bipolar I disorder I fell fast and far outside my father’s reach or understanding. I slipped away from him, I left him behind on a course he couldn’t save me from because I had to learn to save myself. The greatest lesson my father has ever taught me is self-sufficiency and I had to learn to take the necessary steps toward wellness and back to him on my own. My dad and I still have a complex relationship even with my sobriety and remission being evident. There are things we just can’t talk about right now but the biggest feeling that lives between us now isn’t pain or resentment, it's hope. I know that we communicate better now than we have in years because he started cooking my favorite meals again and if you know my dad he is most loving in the kitchen.

I can honestly say my dad isn’t the first person on my support team I call in a crisis but he is the first to call all the hospitals in the city to find out where his daughter is. He is an important part of my support system choosing to play a role in the background but nevertheless always there. I have yet to address some of the trauma that contributed to my Bipolar and substance use with my dad because we are not there yet. I’m taking it one day at a time and continuing to foster an environment where open dialogue and ongoing growth are key.     

My dad is and will always be my first love despite the challenges we’ve faced and might face in the future.One of the most valuable lessons he taught me was: “There are three things in life you can’t get back once they are gone. A lost opportunity, a shot arrow and the spoken word.” With so many lost opportunities to communicate with my father throughout my journey to wellness, I will never lose another opportunity to tell him how much I love him and what his support, wisdom and tough love has meant to me.  What can I say I’m a card-carrying Daddy’s Girl. Love you Daddy. 

“There are three things in life that you can’t get back once they are gone. A shot arrow, a lost opportunity and the spoken word.”-My Daddy

My father is a man of very few words, at times, then there are other times his speech and presence commands a room through the magic of his storytelling. When it comes to me however, growing up my father said very little but what he did share with his eldest daughter was life lessons in the form of poetic advice that opened my mind and settled deep in the soul of my consciousness where I could reach them anytime or anywhere and at every point in my life. All that was required of me was that I listen, remember and apply his sage advice. The following memory is a seemingly insignificant story of spilt milk and how my father made this mishap into one of the most profound life lessons I have ever learned.

When I was seven years old I spilt an entire carton of buttermilk on my mom’s loveseat. I was attempting to churn butter, something I had learned on a recent school trip. I begged my mom to buy a carton of buttermilk so I could attempt to replicate this incredible process of turning liquid into solid butter and after much hesitation and a child’s persistence my mother gave in and bought me a litre carton of the milk. It was a Saturday morning when I would begin my project. Before I started, I jumped on the loveseat, grabbed the remote control and turned on the television to my usual Saturday morning cartoons. I then entered our apartment kitchen, went into the refrigerator to retrieve the buttermilk then headed to the bottom cupboard where my mom stored a myriad of old butter containers she reused as tupperware and refused to throw away. 

I sat down on my mother’s loveseat and began the process of shaking the buttermilk in the butter container, just as the kids were taught on our school trip. I shook and shook and shook periodically checking if milk had turned to creamy butter. Eventually my seven year old hands got tired and slippery so I decided to take a break and watch cartoons instead. As I put the butter container on the seat beside me, and shifted my focus to Bugs Bunny. The butter bowl tipped and thick, half-churned buttermilk spilled onto the right side cushion of my mother’s beloved brown loveseat. My parents hadn’t quite gotten up for the morning, so using my 7 year old logic I took the opportunity to turn over the offended cushion to the cleaner side because I figured what they didn’t know I couldn’t get in trouble for.

I continued on with my morning routine of cartoons and dry Frosted Flakes, then my day filled with playing with my toys and my weekend in anxiety waiting to be caught for my actions. But time passed and nothing was said so by Monday morning when it was time to go to school I had stopped worrying about the split milk and by week’s end the milk was a distant memory. However, on Saturday morning, one full week after Milk-gate my mother noticed a funny smell that permeated the apartment. I sat silently on the left side of the love seat knowing what was assaulting my mothers senses and watched her frantically try to find the origins of the offending odor. My mom, in an accusatory fashion asked my father if he knew where the smell was coming from and he non-committally shrugged his shoulders as if to say “What smell?” which drove my mother crazy. Then she turned to me and asked, “Onika do you know where that smell is coming from?”

With a straight face and all the cowardly courage I felt in that moment I said “No,” I lied to my mother, not for the first time or the last in my lifetime but this was a significant moment in the history of my lies because in the past I could always remember telling a lie or making up a story because I didn’t know the truth. I always tried to tell the truth but this time the lie was for purely selfish reasons even if that reason was self-preservation. After an hour of tearing through our apartment my mother gave up and left to do her weekly grocery shop.