https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Fh5vB7bD0OS1gCrXF8kcJxtIcbvp3AM1/view?usp=sharing
| In 2019, I attended an IWWG Conference that didn’t end so well. The excitement and creative energy in addition to commuting back and forth for six days, enrolling in two intensive workshops, attending every breakout session, and tackling traumatic subject matter spiraled me into mania. I had to leave the conference early, missing the culminating activities, including performances of my classmates’ scenes for which I’d been asked to perform in and had rehearsed all week. As a professional mental health peer advocate, I was mortified by my erratic behavior and relapse. Even worse, I felt tremendous guilt about missing the opportunity to perform in my classmates’ pieces. I swore I’d never show my face again at another IWWG Conference. Last year, I mustered the courage to attend the annual IWWG conference since it was only an hour away and my writing buddy would also be attending. This time I was determined to finish the conference with my dignity (and sanity) intact. I vowed to pace myself, practice self-care, avoid alcohol, and get plenty of sleep. I packed my bags and hoped no one would remember me. As soon as I arrived, I recognized many names and faces from that dreaded conference. I’d noticed others looking at me, probably wondering if I was that same poor girl whose husband came to retrieve her in her frenzied state several years ago. Embarrassment and shame burned through me, but I pushed those feelings aside and carried on. I maintained a low profile for the rest of the week and resisted any of the night time events. However, I’d written a piece that I wanted to share at an open mic night so I signed up and prepared for my reading. As I was revising my piece, a voice kept niggling in my brain—Why am I here? Impostor syndrome set in. Who will even care about what I have to say, especially since they likely think I’m crazy? The shame of stigma paralyzed me. I’d never be able to redeem myself among these esteemed writers with years of conferences and accolades under their belts. Still, I felt this pressing need to speak. Then it hit me— Maybe I could use this open mic as an opportunity to not only acknowledge my mental illness but to illustrate what recovery looks like. Recovery looks like me. I recalled all I’d learned since that first episode twelve years ago. I reminded myself that even though I had a setback, I’d rebounded and returned wiser and stronger. Isn’t that what recovery is all about? As a proud peer advocate, I like to be open and transparent about my own mental health struggles. Since there’s no cure for mental illness, relapses are bound to happen. I decided to use the open mic as an opportunity to inform others about mental health and to reclaim my voice and dignity among the very people with whom I’d lost it several years ago, After all, life is not about how far you fall, but how many times you get back up. This speech is the result. I have to admit I’m proud of my transparency and courage. |
Christina L. Dunbar 