From this article:
I started my blog in 2007 after being diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I didn't expect it to be read other than by friends and family. There were things I found hard to talk about, and things they found hard to understand. On a blog, I could express myself more freely. People could choose to listen, or not.
I've blogged about some things people might consider too private for the public. I've blogged about believing I was being followed by Cat from Red Dwarf. I've blogged about being too depressed to use the toilet. I've blogged about taking an overdose. I blogged about how, that night in hospital, my friends honoured my request for a bar of chocolate. I wrote about immediately throwing it up into a paper cup. When the psychiatrist sternly asked, "So, what happened here?" I tearfully confessed that I'd eaten a Toffee Crisp and the sombre expressions on my friend's faces collapsed into laughter.
These kind of experiences happen to many people. And as harrowing as they may be, I've always been aware of the kind of grim humour in it all. The unintentional absurdity of madness, the often-tedium of it all, is rarely confronted. It is helpful, to look it in the eye, and laugh at it.
Having never promoted my writing, I was surprised when it started gaining a following. I toyed with the idea of hiding my identity then. But how could I be a hypocrite? I couldn't say there was nothing to be ashamed of and then don a mask myself.
I'd initially been advised by psychiatrists to "be creative" and keep a diary. Eventually, that encouragement turned to dismay and disapproval. Most thought that blogging being a part of my life may mean I would become too entrenched in the identity of someone with a mental illness. They were concerned that the introspection would make me ill. I didn't really understand why they were worried then; I understand now. Mental illness did become too large a part of my identity and I realised I had to shake that off in order to recover from it.
However, my blog was a huge part of the process. And it has led me to some wonderful and bizarre experiences. I've become involved in mental-health activism, gained a modest reputation as a writer, and, most surreally, had a BBC Radio 4 play adapted from it.
A week ago, nervous and furtive at a university interview, I was tapped upon the shoulder by a woman. "Excuse me", she asked nervously. "Do you write a blog?" I nodded. She had recognised my name. And that's not the first time that's happened.
My limits lie in my relationships. I rarely go into detail about them; I've always tried to respect the privacy of people in my life. I only mention my relationships when it's relevant to mental health, and when I've had permission. There are things I regret ever mentioning, and recently, I've taken most of my entries offline. I became tired of people parroting back posts I'd made four years ago as a way to undermine me. Nobody is the same as they were then. I'm no longer Just A Mental Patient. I want the chance to speak for myself, as I am now. And strangely, I've always been more OK with people knowing what goes on inside my head than what goes on inside my home.
Read Seaneen's blog atthesecretlifeofamanicdepressive.wordpress.com/